


Amends and Absolution

by sirel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant through Deathly Hallows, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Drama, F/M, Fluffy Moments, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Build, Substance Abuse, Therapy, Work In Progress, eventual Dramione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:33:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 73,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirel/pseuds/sirel
Summary: Draco Malfoy’s trial before the Wizengamot results in a very unconventional sentence - one that leaves Hermione wary, Ron irate, and Draco incredibly uncomfortable.They all must confront their own inner demons in this post-war fic, when tensions are high, relationships are strained, and rogue Death Eaters are still at-large.Canon-compliant through Deathly Hallows, slow build, eventual Dramione.  Rated M for language and sexual content.





	1. Pain and Pendency

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that the first two chapters are relatively heavy on exposition in order to set up the story. More action to come!
> 
> Also, this fic has angst and fluff, but it is not particularly dark. If you are looking for Dark!Draco, this story is probably not for you.
> 
> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter canon characters included here are the property of J.K. Rowling. I do not make any profit from this written work.

 

**Thursday, June 11, 1998**

 

“I can’t believe that you stood up for that bloody ferret down there, Harry!  After everything he’s done!”  

Hermione flicked her wand at the door of Harry’s new office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, trying unsuccessfully to tune out Ron’s anger.

 _Muffliato. Salvio hexia._   The charms spread outward, enveloping them within the tight space, and Hermione automatically sucked in a deep breath, relief seeping into her limbs with the satisfaction of a hit to an addict.   _Protego totalum_.

Eyes shut, she exhaled slowly, savoring the feel of the tension leaving her shoulders.  They’d be safe here.

Harry’s voice, measured yet forceful, cut through her momentary peace.  “Malfoy may be a prat, Ron, but he doesn’t deserve to spend his life in Azkaban.  I want everyone to know the truth of what happened.”

Hermione reluctantly turned in time to see Ron’s angry eyebrows shoot up.  “The truth!”  His voice thundered in the relative quiet of the cramped space.  “The truth is that without _you_ , that vile bastard would have killed _me_ during his _multiple_ attempts at murdering Dumbledore!  And let’s not forget that he watched Hermione getting tortured in his own monstrosity of a house and didn’t do shite to help her!”

Ron’s arm, index finger extended, shot out in her direction, but his eyes remained fixed on Harry.  "He’s been an evil arse forever, Harry, and he has the damned evidence on his arm to prove it!”

Hermione froze, her chest suddenly tight again.  Her ‘incident’ at Malfoy Manor was not a topic that they openly discussed, and she preferred it that way.

Her skin prickled as Harry’s eyes quickly roved over her face, undoubtedly attempting to assess the state of her emotions.  Hermione raised her chin and smoothly met his gaze, forcing her facial features into a mask of indifference.  With forced casualness, she lowered her wand arm while her marred left forearm settled itself against her stomach.

Ron’s head abruptly turned in her direction, his finger stabbing at the air in front of her.  “I mean, look at Hermione, Harry! We’re in the bloody _auror_ department of the _ministry_ , and she still feels the need to cast protective spells.  And it’s fucking Malfoy’s fault!  Look!”

Before Hermione could move, Ron’s hand grabbed at her left wrist, tugging it away from her torso and twisting it up to reveal her scar under the fluorescent office lights.  His voice cracked on a sob.  “Look!”

Hermione’s heart started thundering in her chest.  Her brows slammed together as she pitched her wand into her pocket, her right hand quickly slapping down to cover the exposed mark.  She tried to yank her left hand back, but Ron gripped her more tightly.

“Ron-”

“Leave her alone, Ron!”  Harry’s voice was harder now, angry.  “Let her be!”

Hermione finally tore free, and Ron’s limp hand rose to cover his face.  Another sob shook his frame.

In a different life, Hermione might have rounded on Ron and screamed at his selfish, insensitive stupidity.  But his current anguish was so obviously real and raw, and it clearly stemmed at least in part from the depths of his caring for her.

Damn Death Eater trials.  Each one had been brutal to attend, but Draco Malfoy’s was admittedly hitting the closest to home, dredging up memories that were better left buried.

Hermione clutched her arms against her abdomen and took a deep breath.  She allowed her eyes to close.  “Just...let’s just all calm down.”  Her words were a bit slow and dry - not surprising given that she hadn’t uttered more than a few monosyllables aloud since she herself had been sitting on the platform as a witness over two hours ago.  “It’s true that Draco Malfoy and I have always been at odds, but I don’t blame him for what happened at Easter.”

Ron pressed his lips together and released a loud nasal sigh, his hand still sprawled across one side of his face.  “How can you say that, ‘Mione?”  He lifted his head, eyes gleaming.  “After everything?  He would have watched you _die_ right before his eyes.  You’re too forgiving.”

“No, I’m not.  This isn’t about forgiveness, Ronald.  I’m just...tired.  And I want to be factual about what happened.  Malfoy is one of the last people on Earth that I’d want to be around, but he didn’t -”

“So you agree with Harry, then.”  Ron’s voice was indignant.  “Even though you were victimized.  Even though that horrid slur carved into your arm is the very name that Malfoy called you for years.  Even though you’re my _girlfriend_ and I need to see that bastard _pay_ for how he treated us.”

Hermione let out a loud sigh.  She understood Ron’s moodiness, but she would not give in to any manipulation from him.  Merlin, he was exhausting.  She silently waited with raised eyebrow and started the countdown in her head.   _Ten, nine, eight…_

Harry stayed absolutely still, jaw slightly clenched, surveying them both wordlessly.

Ron’s eyes darted between them.  Then, like clockwork, under the weight of the expectant silence, his gaze softened and his shoulders relaxed, the fight leaving him.  By the time Hermione reached _two_ , Ron whispered, “Are you ready to get out of here?”

“I thought you wanted to stay until they’re done deliberating, to hear the verdict.”

Ron shrugged.  “I don’t need to stay.  It’ll be headlining the _Prophet_ tomorrow anyway.”  He glanced at Harry but didn’t quite meet his eyes.  “What about you, mate? Do you want to stay or go?”

Harry ran his fingers through his hair, apparently ready now to overlook Ron’s earlier rudeness.  “I had planned to stay to the end, but I guess we don’t have to.  If we leave now, at least we’ll avoid the media clamor when the court lets ou-”

A loud chime penetrated through the room’s charms, followed by the amplified voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, resonating throughout the building.  “ _Attention, please. Miss Hermione Granger, your immediate presence is requested in Courtroom Ten.  Again, Miss Hermione Granger, please report to Courtroom Ten as soon as possible._ ”

Hermione’s eyes panned to Ron, who was standing gape-mouthed, and then to Harry, whose wide eyes and raised eyebrows were especially exaggerated behind his glasses.  Her stomach lurched.  Why would the Wizengamot want her now?  Great Godric, she was going to be sick.  More questions meant more memories.

And why the hell wouldn’t Kingsley just send a memo, or an owl?  Maybe the protective enchantments were bloc-

“Hermione, love, your face is pale.”  Ron was the first to speak, interrupting her galloping thoughts.  He stood in front of her, hands rubbing lightly up and down her arms.  “Let’s get out of here.  For all they know, we’ve already left.”

Hermione shot him an incredulous look.  “Of course they know I’m still here, and if we leave, they’ll just use another method of contacting me.  They must need me for a reason.”

She swallowed and broke away, making her way toward the office door.  She just wanted to get this over with so that she could retreat back to Hogwarts, where clean-up and restoration tasks were plentiful enough to provide endless distraction.

“We’ll go with you,” Harry offered, and together they hastened down the corridor and into the lift.

~~~~~~~

The dark passageways of Level Ten were bursting with witches and wizards waiting for the court to reconvene.  Hermione pushed through the crowd flanked by Ron and Harry, trying valiantly to ignore the stares, comments, and photographers.  She’d never get used to all of the attention that seemed to follow them everywhere.

At the closed doors to the Ministry’s grandest courtroom, a plum-robed junior Wizengamot member greeted her with a smile, which immediately faltered when he noted the presence of her boyfriend and best friend.

“I’m sorry, but only Miss Granger’s presence is requested at this time.  You may wait for her here.”

Ron’s red face pressed close to the wizard, his hands clenching into visible fists at his sides.  “Don’t you know who we are?  That’s my girlfriend!  I’m allowed to be there with her through this ridiculous summons!”

Hermione felt innumerable eyes piercing into their backs as nearby conversations hushed.  Her hand flew instinctively to Ron’s forearm.  “It’s okay, Ronald.  I’m sure that they just have some questions for me.  I doubt it will take long.”

Harry leaned in close.  Cameras flashed.  “We’ll be right here for you if you need anything, Hermione.”

Still scowling, Ron raised himself to his full height.  Thank the Founders that he knew better than to argue with her here in public.  He stepped back from their greeter and dropped a quick kiss on Hermione’s cheek, stating gruffly, “I’m here for you, love.”

Hermione couldn’t help but feel that among the three of them, she got the better end of this particular stick; her heart swelled for Ron and Harry as she pushed into the courtroom, leaving them to face the insufferably impudent mob while they waited for her.

~~~~~~~

Hermione’s jaw hit the floor, she’d swear it.  She looked around the courtroom and felt almost... _betrayed_.  In addition to Kingsley being there, Minerva McGonagall and Arthur Weasley were now also members of the Wizengamot.  How could the people that she knew and loved so well possibly ask her to do this?  The bearded old wizards she could understand; they only knew her from the headlines.  But _Order members_?   _Friends_?

“We all understand your reservations, Hermione, especially in light of the history that was discussed today.  But please know that we’ve deliberated about this extensively, and we all truly believe that this plan is the best option we have.  It’s for the greater good of our whole community...”

Hermione glared at Kingsley’s lifted eyebrows and beseeching eyes.  He knew what he was doing - damn him - trying to appeal to her sense of social responsibility.  Too bad he didn’t realise that she was _almost_ too deadened inside to care.  Plus, she had a more practical excuse to use in refusing them, as difficult as it was to bring up.

“I’m...sorry, but I really can’t help you.  You see, my...my parents are...gone.  Obliviated, I mean.”  The facade that she’d been holding together was starting to crack as the words came stumbling out.  “I had to, you know, for their own safety, and...now...I don’t know…exactly where they are or even if...”

Her voice died on her lips as she looked around the room.  Was that pity that she saw aimed at her from every direction?  The distressed expression on Arthur Weasley’s face made her stomach plummet.

A kindly-looking witch with refined features broke the awkward silence.  “Have you any other family, dear?  Anyone else who knows of your magical abilities?”

Hermione slowly shook her head.  Her one and only aunt knew that she attended a special school for “gifted individuals,” but she didn’t know more than that.

Kingsley looked at her speculatively, pursing his lips.  “I want you to understand how serious we are, Hermione.  This is not just a court case; it’s an example.  It’s a statement about the values of our new society.  And to help convince you, I’m prepared to offer you the following in exchange for your service.”  He pressed the tip of one index finger to another, ticking off items.

“First, we will do everything in our power to restore your parents to you.  That includes using our already strained Ministry resources to locate your parents, sending our top memory healer with you to reconstruct their memories, reinstating their professional positions, and taking care of other lingering implications of their...lifestyle changes.  Also, you will receive a monthly stipend to cover additional costs incurred by -.”

Hermione didn’t hear the rest of his words.  Tears were beginning to roll down her cheeks, unbidden, and she quickly swiped at them with her fingers.  Over the past year, she’d thought of her parents so many times, but as each month of horcrux hunting inched by she knew that bringing them back became increasingly more of a pipe dream.  For the first time in a long time, she felt a flicker of hope.

Hope that was quickly doused by her unrelentingly logical brain.  Even with the Ministry’s help, the chances of actually restoring her parents were slim.  She had destroyed core memories that spanned years.  And what if her parents preferred their current life and hated her for forcing them back to England?  What if they could never forgive her for what she’d done?  And all of that was in addition to the hassle and stress of complying with the Ministry’s outlandish task.  The emotional toll of going along with the proposition was outrageous.

Abruptly, another question crashed through her mind, and she knew that it would plague her if she didn’t voice it.  “Why would you do so much to have me?  Surely there are others who could fulfill your needs.  Other muggleborns?”

“There really isn’t anyone better suited, Hermione.  This will be a rather unconventional arrangement with muggles, and we need to adhere as closely as possible to the Statute of Secrecy.  Additionally, I’m sure that you’re aware that Draco Malfoy is a high profile target for malcontents on both sides of the war, and with our Auror department currently stretched so thin, we need someone with your level of skill…”

Kingsley’s voice trailed off, undoubtedly due to her gaping at him.

“To what?  Be his bodyguard?  I’m not an auror, and frankly your emphasis on the need for protection makes me less inclined to get myself and my family involved.”  She’d be bringing her parents home to the very kind of risk that she’d wanted to avoid by obliviating them.  “There must be another way. Someone else.”

Recognizing that Hermione was on the brink of refusal, McGonagall suddenly cut in with that no-nonsense tone that made Hermione’s attention snap into focus.  “Miss Granger.  You have incredible skills and connections that we need.  Mr Malfoy needs them, and Wizarding Britain needs them.  People must see that this type of atonement is possible.”

She paused, and Hermione felt her former Head of House’s piercing gaze soften a bit with compassion.  “It is unfair for us to ask you to do this.  But we must.  There is very little that seems fair for anyone these days.  But we look to you, Hermione, because we know that you can do it - safely and competently.  You’ve accomplished more difficult feats a hundred times over, and more to the point, we trust you completely to fulfill the expectations without abusing the power granted to you.”

Another pause, and the elderly witch’s stern eyebrows drew together.  “And you must know that we’ll all do our part in making sure that you and your family are protected.  You aren’t alone.”

Hermione contemplated the elderly witch that had been her mentor for so many years, and then her gaze swung to Arthur, who was her surrogate father in so many ways.  Finally her eyes landed back on Kingsley, and she poignantly remembered how the two of them had clung to each other - how they’d entrusted their _lives_ to each other - as they’d battled Voldemort and his cronies together on the back of a thestral.  Surely these friends wouldn’t ask this of her if they didn’t think her capable or if they didn’t see it as necessary.

McGonagall’s words of flattery and reassurance echoed in her head as she took in the remaining 40-odd members of the Wizengamot, who were watching her carefully to see if she’d cooperate, and for the first time, Hermione found herself actually considering the proposition, visualizing her parents back in their home and back in her life.


	2. Trial and Tribulations

 

**Thursday, June 11, 1998**

 

Draco paced like a caged tiger in the small, securely-charmed chamber adjacent to Courtroom Ten, the anxious knot in his stomach swelling larger with each passing minute.  Merlin, he hated waiting!  It was almost worse than the five hours that he’d been forced to publicly re-live the worst moments of his life.  He still couldn’t shake off the horrified looks of shock, the dagger-sharp glares of disgust, and - worst of all - the doleful flashes of pity that the old fuddy duddies of the Wizengamot had directed at him.  Of course, he deserved it all; he’d been a spineless agent of evil, and even now, months later, the mere memories of the things he’d seen and done could make him sick.

He spun on his heel again, fervently praying.   _Not Azkaban.  Please not Azkaban_.  They wouldn’t actually send him there, would they?  Not when they’d only given his father a sentence of one year.  Well, that plus five years of house arrest and a lifetime of financial restitution, but that hardly counted.  Or maybe they’d give Draco a year in prison, too, since he was marked?

He pressed his palms to his temples and spun around again.

Of course, Potter had spoken relatively well of him - even if he had made Draco sound like a fucking milksop - and given that Perfect Potter’s opinion was as revered as unicorn blood these days, surely there must be a chance of staying out of prison.

...But then again, they called Granger back to the courtroom some twenty minutes ago, and that could hardly be good.  Granger had more reason to hate him than most.  Salazar, what could they want from her?  She had been wooden during her testimony - completely passionless.  Where was her insufferably self-righteous spirit? Shouldn’t she be leading the charge against his bigoted arse, waving her wand up on a soapbox or something?  Had his family actually... _broken_ her?  His stomach roiled.

“Draco, darling, please sit down.  You’re making me nauseous with your incessant movement.”

Draco’s eyes shot to his mother, seated on a cushioned bench along the stone wall of the chamber.  This whole process had been terrible for her, and with Lucius currently back in Azkaban, he began to pray again that he would be able to remain available to support her.

“Sorry, Mother.  I just -”

The door to the chamber suddenly opened, an auror standing under the arched frame.  He wriggled his eyebrows.  “It’s time for the moment of truth.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

“We find the accused, Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy, guilty...”

The brittle voice of the elderly Chief Warlock echoed through Draco’s head - _guilty...guilty...guilty_ \- pounding in time with the deafening pulse thudding in his ears.

“...on all counts.”

Draco barely registered the collective murmur from the spectators behind him.  Bile had shot into his throat, and he worked to swallow it down.   _Don’t fucking vomit! Malfoys don’t vomit!_

A sob cut through the courtroom, and several of the plum-robed Wizengamot members glanced past Draco’s left shoulder to where Draco knew his mother was sitting.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, consciously focusing on keeping his back erect and his face straight forward.

“For charges such as the ones presented during this trial, the normal sentence would be from ten years to life in Azkaban prison...”

_Breathe, damn it!_

“...however, given a number of factors, including age, coercion, character testimonials, and the evidence of some redeeming deeds, we conclude that a different sentence is more apt for this case.”

Draco strained to focus. Why the hell was his heartbeat so loud?

“Mr Malfoy, you are hereby sentenced to spend 22 months living with a muggle host family of the Wizengamot’s choosing.  During this time, you will relinquish your wand and will be stripped of your magical powers.  These 22 months are commensurate with the time between your receiving the Dark Mark and being taken into Ministry custody following the Battle of Hogwarts…”

Draco felt his mouth fall open, and he quickly snapped it shut.  Live with muggles?  As a fucking squib?  Were they serious?  He needed his magic for when rogue Death Eaters came after him.  Weren’t they going to let him protect himself?

A bitter realisation swept over him.  To die as a squib at the hands of deranged wizards would be poetic justice from the point of view of the Ministry and the public.

The Chief Warlock continued, and Draco barely had it in him to listen now that his death sentence had been written.

“Further, Mr Malfoy, as penance for some of your abuses of magic, you will spend 40 hours per week for the first twelve months of your sentence giving service at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry under the guidance of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.  This is meant to atone for your intentional admittance of Death Eaters into the school and the corresponding consequences of that act.  Of course, this service will be completed without the aid of magic.”

Draco blinked.  He would be spending his time at Hogwarts? He’d be more protected from Death Eaters there, but he wouldn’t put it past a grieving student to slip a toxic potion into his drink.  Hell, there’d probably be someone ready to hex him in every corridor.

He quickly glanced at the headmistress, who was seated in the sea of Wizengamot members just left of center.  Was she behind this decision, or would she resent having him back in her school?  Her face gave nothing away.  There wasn’t much time to consider, because the Chief Warlock carried on, his brittle voice belying the import of his words.

“The remaining ten months will be spent giving service - non-magical, 40 hours per week - to Madam Rosmerta in Hogsmeade, on whom you deliberately and over a prolonged period used the illegal imperius curse.  That said, you will be permitted to visit your family for up to six hours each month, if you so choose.  Any hours apart from the required service and optional visitation must be spent with your host family.  For the sake of protection and privacy, the name of the host family will not be officially released, but you should know that it is a family that has also been affected by the war.  As such, you will be responsible not only for good conduct, but also for providing a stipend of 50,000 galleons to cover your living costs and as a form of reparation for your membership in an organized hate group.  At the end of the 22 months, contingent upon successful and willing completion of these obligations as determined by an appointed Ministry official, your sentence will be considered met, and you will be free to practice magic again.”

At this the old wizard took off his spectacles and looked Draco straight in the eye.  “You will have made amends.  However, failure to comply will result in you serving time in Azkaban.  Your sentence will begin on Monday, June 15th.  Until then, you will remain under house arrest with your mother at your family’s estate.”

The gavel slammed down with the finality of a guillotine, and the courtroom was suddenly abuzz with animated chatter.

Draco couldn’t make himself move.  Lights flashed around him.

He was pronounced guilty; he had not been acquitted as his mother had been.  Now that the initial shock was fading, Draco’s hands fisted and his teeth clenched as anger surged into his chest.  His hope, his dream, of staying in quiet seclusion with his mother had been torn from him.

Draco inhaled deeply, willing his emotions into control...and with the vital breath came logical clarity.  He was not being sent to Azkaban; the dementors would not steal what little remained of his soul.  He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the actual, unconventional sentence, but if one looked past the extreme likelihood of death or disfigurement by hostile parties, the sentence seemed… well… almost…. _fair_.

He had done every deed that he’d been charged with, and more.  The sentence was a punishment, to be sure, but it also somehow seemed like a chance.  Surely he could find a way to turn the outrageous situation to his advantage.  He was a Slytherin, after all.

He was dimly aware of people moving around him, but he snapped to attention when two aurors caught him by the elbows and started directing him back toward the waiting chamber he’d been in earlier.  Were they going to extract his magic now?  Where was his mother?

He was gently thrust through the chamber’s doorway and stopped short as he took in the imposing form of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt.

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Well, that was worth sticking around.  Did you see the look on Malfoy’s face?!”  Ron’s grin was smug.  “Pity the poor muggles that get stuck with him, though, eh?”

Hermione didn’t respond.  She busied herself with adjusting her wristwatch, trying to ignore the fact that Harry was observing her intently.

“We’d best be off,” Ron continued, as photographers and reporters started moving toward them, all eager to get a post-trial exclusive with the ridiculously dubbed ‘Golden Trio.’

“Uh, actually, I need to go meet with Kingsley again.”

She’d tried to make it sound matter-of-fact, but the boys’ eyes immediately narrowed.  She swallowed.  “You can go ahead without me.  I’ll meet up with you later.”

“Like hell, Hermione.  What the fuck did Kingsley want before?  I know that you couldn't talk earlier what with the court resuming, but if he’s wheedling you into doing something -”

“Don’t be absurd, Ronald.  Kingsley doesn’t wheedle.”  Except when he does.

“Let’s not discuss this here,” Harry put in, his eyes fixing on the quickly approaching media vermin.

They abruptly stood and darted among the flurry of departing Wizengamot members, wending their way toward the front of the courtroom instead of toward the exit.  As they approached the door to the discreet side chamber, Hermione could see Ron’s scowl.  He was undoubtedly angry about being left in the dark; his need for control had grown immensely since Fred’s death.  But more disturbing was Harry’s firm, icy expression - so restrained and cool compared to the warmth she usually felt from him.  He’d likely already put the pieces together but was choosing not to say anything with so many other people around.

This meeting was going to be difficult enough; she didn’t want to bring her best friends’ angst into it.  “Really, you guys must be hungry.  Don’t wait around for me.  I promise I’ll fill you in later.”

Harry stopped just outside the door and nodded, his eyes piercing hers.  “Of course, Hermione.  If you’re sure that’s wh-”

“Hold up.  Isn’t this where Malfoy went in?”  Hermione could practically see Ron’s wheels turning.  He must really be bothered if he’d disregard her comment about going to eat. “No. No, no, no.  Hermione, this is obviously more than the Wizengamot just drilling for information.  What the fuck do they want from you?  You have no business with Malfoy.”

Hermione glanced fleetingly at Ron’s face, but she couldn’t quite meet his eyes.  Lightning-quick, Ron’s hand shot out.

“Wait!  Ron, stop!”  She shouted and tried to block him with her body, but he managed to force open the chamber door before a nearby auror yanked him back.

“Weasley, what the bloody hell’s gotten into you!”

It was one of the senior aurors from the department - Hermione couldn’t remember his name - but she hoped that Ron wasn’t going to get in trouble. He’d only started training a few weeks ago.

Ron wriggled and tried to free himself, but the auror only bound him tighter.  “Calm yourself, Weasley!”

“Hermione, tell me what the fuck is going on!”  Ron’s limbs were locked now, but his eyes blasted past Hermione and into the smaller room, where Kingsley Shacklebolt was rising from a chair onto his feet, wand in hand.

“Kingsley!” Ron shouted.  “Hermione deserves peace!  She has no business with Mal-”

“Silencio.”  The Minister’s charm was quiet and quick.  Face solemn, he signaled to the auror.  “Take him out of here.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco closed his eyes and gulped air, right hand splayed across his chest.   _It was only that bloody git, Weasley!_   But the shouts, the wand, the people, the conflict...it had all sent a burst of horrid adrenaline coursing through him that had shot him straight out of his seat, automatically grasping for a wand that he didn’t currently possess.

Damned embarrassing, that’s what it was.  Apparently, living with Death Eaters had turned him into a pansy.

With conscious effort, he relaxed his limbs and eased back into the slightly worn chair.  The Minister had just been commenting on everyone’s 'genuine faith' in Draco’s 'rehabilitation,' or some such bollocks, when his mother had arrived, followed soon after by the bellowing Golden Trio.  What did those _paragons_ want?  Why was Weasley worked up about Granger?

Draco watched as the auror pulled Weasley away, and Shacklebolt gestured for Granger to enter the chamber.  Potter lurked in the doorway, his head swinging between Weasley’s retreating backside and the occupants of the room.

Shacklebolt regarded Granger, whose sharp eyes were rapidly assessing every cranny.  “Would you like for Harry to stay?”

She seemed to hesitate.  “If he wants to.  I trust Harry more than anyone.”  Both her expression and voice were too somber for the know-it-all swot Draco had known.  His stomach churned again.

Potter’s eyes scrutinized hers with the raw intensity of a lover, and Draco felt the compulsion to look away.  Were they lovers?  They had always been close while at Hogwarts, and it was generally known that they’d spent the last year living together on the run.  Of course, Weasley had been with them, too, and the _Prophet_ had made it seem like she and Weasley were an item.  But had she been bedded by Potter, also?

Draco slid his gaze to her tired, liquidy brown eyes, then downward to her pale pink lips, and further down her skin to the gentle curves of her body that were highlighted by her white floral summer dress.  Enemies and blood status notwithstanding, he had watched her grow from an awkward girl into a sleek, attractive woman.  Despite the somewhat haunted expression she now carried, any man living with her for a period of time would have to be blind to ignore her allure.

Potter entered without a word, the door slamming securely behind him, and Shacklebolt conjured a narrow conference table with chairs.  Potter and Granger took seats on one side, so Draco gestured to his mother to sit beside him on the other.  Shacklebolt was settling into the seat at the head when Draco heard his mother’s watery voice.

“Thank you, Mr Potter, for your words of support for Draco today.”

Potter gave a slight nod.  “I’ve told you to call me Harry, Mrs Malfoy.  And I only spoke the truth.”

Draco knew that his mother would never give in to the familiarity of calling him anything but Mr Potter; it was her way of humbling herself as a result of his help with her acquittal and his role in conquering the Dark Lord.  Draco also knew that he really ought to say something, too.

“Well, I’m grateful to you, Potter.  And you, too, Granger.”  They were both looking at him with slightly guarded, appraising eyes, but there didn’t seem to be much hostility in them.

Shacklebolt smiled.  “You will have plenty of time to show them your gratitude, Draco.  Especially Hermione.”

Draco blinked.  Granger must be involved in his sentence somehow.  That would explain Weasley’s anger and her summons to the Wizengamot.  “Is she my corrections officer or something?”

The corner of Shacklebolt’s mouth quirked up, sending a shiver of unease racing down Draco’s spine.

“No.  Hermione is your host sister.”


	3. Knickers and Knaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With sincere respect for the late great David Bowie. May his spirit of inventive uniqueness continue to inspire.

**Sunday, June 14, 1998**

 

Hermione’s body immediately tensed as a sudden movement flashed across her peripheral vision.  Without thought, she swiveled her head from her work on the dilapidated greenhouse, her hand shadowing her eyes from the sun as she peered into the distance.  Noting the familiar frame and gait of the person who’d just apparated, she relaxed her shoulders and thrust her wand in her pocket, then hastily took off jogging down the grassy slope, a smile splitting her face so widely that her muscles tingled.

“Ron! Ron, I’ve got news!”

She allowed the downward momentum of the hill to carry her forward, her pace quickening with each step.  Throwing her arms wide, she crashed into Ron and curled her limbs around his neck.

A loud chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Happy to see you, too.”

He wrapped his arms around her and pressed a sloppy kiss to her forehead.  Hermione quickly laid her head against his chest and snuggled herself into his warmth.  She felt her smile waver as the tangy scent of firewhiskey snaked around her, assaulting her senses.

Irritation stirred inside, but Hermione promptly shoved it aside.  She hadn’t been this happy in _ages_ , and she wasn’t going to ruin the moment by dredging up old arguments.

Resolved, she smiled again full-force.

“They’ve actually done it, Ron! They’ve found them!”

“Who? Your parents?”

One of his hands went up to cradle the back of her head while the other eased down her spine toward the crest of her bum.

“Yes!”

She pulled back slightly, moving her hands to his shoulders and bouncing a bit on the balls of her feet.  “In Cairns.  The owl arrived an hour ago.  Can you believe it?!  I have to say, Kingsley has wasted no time getting his people moving.  Dickelson is incredible!”

“Dickelson?”

“Duncan Dickelson, Head of the Muggle Liaison Office.  You know, his team is overseeing the case…”

Blank.

“Ron, I told you about him already!  He’s wonderfully efficient.  He’s hoping to have my parents’ home connected to the floo network by tomorrow, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.  Dickelllllsonnn...”

Hermione suddenly noticed the glassy sheen on Ron’s reddened eyes.  He was further gone than she’d thought, and it was only one o’clock in the afternoon, for Merlin’s sake.

An involuntary sigh burst past her lips. “Ron, do you need some Pepper-up potion?”

His words were terse.  “I’m fine, Hermione.”  One corner of his mouth ticked up.  “Except that I’ve missed you.  In fact, I think you’re just what I need to feel better...”

He slid the hand cradling her head around under her chin and with slight pressure raised her lips to meet his.  His breath was repulsive, and his lips were chapped, but Hermione tried to ignore the taste and sensation as she opened herself to his kiss.

His tongue darted into her mouth like a slippery eel while his hands squeezed her arse, slowly rubbing her intimately against him.

“Mmmmh.”  His mouth slid across her cheek to her ear, his teeth gently nibbling at the lobe.  “What do you say we celebrate?”

Hermione hesitated, knowing exactly what ‘celebrate’ meant to Ron.  They’d been having sex - usually intoxicated sex - for the past four weeks, and by now both her curiosity and her naive romanticism had been quelled.  Still, was it too much to ask that Ron be sober when they shared their bodies with each other?  Plus, where would they even go?  Hogwarts was crawling with volunteer reconstruction crews, Harry was surely entertaining Ginny at Grimmauld Place, and the Burrow was Depression Central.

She pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his cheek to soften her whispered words.  “Not here, Ron.”

“Then let’s go somewhere.”  

His lips and tongue were inching down her neck, leaving a trail of hot-then-cool moisture in their wake, while his hands pressed a bit more firmly against her backside.  “I’ve nothing against yellow and black.”

Hermione realised that he was referring to the Hufflepuff basement, which had suffered the least amount of damage during the battle and had thus become the lodging place for many live-in summertime volunteers, herself included.  The last time she and Ron had been intimate there, she had felt like an imposter and had continually checked and re-checked her locking spells, _certain_ that someone would catch them.

When she didn’t immediately respond to his suggestion, Ron lifted his head and looked down at her, his left eye squinting up slightly.  “Come on, love, we hardly see each other anymore. I’m always on training missions, and you’re always bloody here doing Merlin knows what.”

He hugged her tightly against his groin, but Hermione pushed her palms against his chest, giving her upper body some space from his.  Indignation shot through her.  “You know what, Ronald?  You’d know exactly what I’m doing around here if you’d actually listen to what I say instead of just trying to jump on me every time we see each other!”

His eyebrows flew together and both eyes narrowed.  “Oh, don’t give me that tripe!  I just listened to you going on about Dickson-”

“Dickelson.”

“-Whatever, and your parents, whom we both know you’ll be spending all of your time with, in the company of sodding Malfoy…”

Hermione knew that Ron was still upset about the deal with the Ministry, but she had hoped that by now he’d be more understanding of her reasons for agreeing to it.  In his opinion, she was brilliant enough to get her parents back without the Ministry’s help, therefore making her a sucker for giving in to their manipulation.

Maybe he was right, but she didn’t want to risk it. The process was already so much easier by having the help of the Ministry’s resources and connections - after all, she would see her parents within the next few days, maybe even tomorrow!

At Ron’s scowl, she realised that she was smiling at the thought.

“You think that amusing, do you?  That all of your free time will be taken up with Malfoy?  Yeah.  Bloody hilarious.  I never see you, Hermione, and in the rare times I do, you don’t want to let us get close…”

The unfairness, the _inaccuracy_ , of that statement unleashed a jolt of energy throughout Hermione’s limbs, and she jerked herself fully from his grasp.

“Well excuse me for not being thrilled about your whiskied stench, Ronald!  It’s so romantic to know that you need to get yourself pissed before coming to see me.  I keep telling you that drinking is -”

“I bloody _know_ what you keep telling me, Hermione!  And I’m _sick_ of it!  My brother is _dead!_  We went through a _war_!  We’re of age!  Everyone drinks!  So just stop your damned nagging!”

“Ronald, it’s -”

“I’m an adult, Hermione.  And you, you’re a nag who _Can’t. Lighten. Up_.”

He pointed his index finger at her before crossing his arms over his chest.  

Hermione likewise crossed hers, sucking in a breath.

Ron looked her up and down, and then pursed his lips.  “You know, I had hoped to spend the last night before the fucking sentence begins with my _girlfriend_ , but please, just go enjoy your time with bloody Dickerson instead!”

He turned on his heel and started walking back through the wards surrounding the Hogwarts grounds.

Emotion billowed in Hermione’s chest, but she refused to call him back.  “It’s Dickelson, you prat!”

Keeping his back to her, he simply flicked up his hand dismissively and disapparated.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Eyes fixated on the locked lavatory door adjoining her dormitory in Hufflepuff, Hermione slid on the tiny, lacy red knickers that she had purchased with Ginny a couple of weeks prior.  Ginny, needing to escape the depressive atmosphere at the Burrow, had suggested the shopping spree, declaring that wearing something nice on the outside would be a solid step in feeling better on the inside.  Hermione had thought that utter nonsense, but she’d held her tongue, and they’d ended up in a muggle lingerie shop in Exeter, neither of them wanting to get caught looking at intimate apparel in Diagon Alley.  Hermione could easily imagine the headline in the _Daily Prophet_ : _Little Lionesses Turned Sex Kittens - Young War Heroines Spotted at Madam Moonstone’s!_   Not on her life.

This was her first time putting on these particular undergarments, and so far, she didn’t feel any better.  In fact, she felt...itchy.

She gripped her wand and cast a quick charm for added comfort, then glanced at herself in the mirror.  Her tired eyes taunted her.

What was she even doing?  Why was she getting dolled up for Ron after he’d been a right dick?  It would feel so much better to just crawl under her covers.

The answer bounced around her mind, pricking at her conscience.  After all they’d been through, Ron was more than a mere boyfriend.  He needed her, and she’d pushed him away.  A bubble of worry expanded in her gut.

She quickly slipped on her coral-coloured cocktail dress and pearl pendant necklace.  She had waited at Hogwarts for him to see reason until half seven - twice the time it usually took him to slink repentantly back after an argument.  He still hadn’t come around, so it was time for her to extend a hand.  After all, starting tomorrow, life would become three times more complicated.

She fastened on her high heeled sandals and brushed her hands against the short, slightly flared skirt of her dress.  If becoming a sex kitten would help Ron feel reassured and grounded, then it was time to get kittened up.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Fighting down a grimace of disgust, Draco stared at his image in the mirror.  This couldn’t possibly be right, could it?  

He glanced back at the photograph from the lightly faded _Prophet_ article resting on his bed, and then surveyed his attire again.  He did indeed match the muggle in the photo: a long-sleeved grey and red striped oxford button-front shirt, covered by a fitted mustard-yellow waistcoat with petite golden studs.  An ice-blue jacket with large lapels fit snuggly over the waistcoat, while skin-tight mustard-yellow trousers hugged his legs like gloves.  Popping out of the collar of the oxford was a sparkly silver necktie with blue dots, and his feet flared in bright red patent leather shoes.  Every aesthetic sensibility that he’d inherited from his elegant mother screamed at the violation.

Did muggles really wear this rubbish?  Draco had no real experience with actual muggles - at least not clean, conscious ones - and this was the only photo that he’d been able to find in the Manor.  He tried to think back on the rare times he’d seen muggle-born schoolmates outside of their wizarding robes…

The mental picture of Granger in Hogsmeade suddenly materialized in his head, crystal clear.  She always wore tight blue trousers that showed off her legs and arse, and on top she frequently donned hideous layers of various colors.  Hmm.  Perhaps his current look was all right after all, even if it did remind him of sick.

A gentle knock rapped against his bedroom door.  “Draco, darling, may I come in?  Supper will be served soon.”

Shite!  How long had he been at this?  He quickly scanned the open luggage strewn about his room and hastily stuffed a robe over the five-week supply of Dreamless Sleep that he’d cushioned into a trunk.  No need for his mother to know about that.

Draco flicked his wand to unlock the door.  “Of course, come in.”  It was too late to transfigure his clothes back now.

His mother gracefully sauntered into the room and then stopped cold, mouth open wide.  She promptly closed it, but as her concentrated gaze slid from Draco’s head to his feet, her lips parted again into an involuntary ‘o’.

Bollocks.  He must really look terrible if his socialite mother was at a loss for words.

Draco forced his spine straighter while she cleared her throat.

Eyebrows lifted, she gestured to the items that were littered across every surface, obviously choosing to ignore the elephant in the room.  “This looks like more than you usually pack for Hogwarts.”

Draco shrugged.  “I won’t have magic to unshrink anything, so I thought it best to leave everything its normal size.”  He didn’t want to depend on Granger to resize his waistcoats and underpants - that is, if she even would.

His mother nodded.  “That makes sense, but now you have …”  She quieted as she counted.  “...six trunks?  How will you carry this all?”

“I’m hoping that Dickelson or Granger will help levitate them for me, at least until we get there.”

It was galling beyond belief to have to rely on Granger’s help, but what else could he do?  At any rate, these trunks didn’t matter that much.  His favourite personal possessions would have to get left behind, namely his broom and his potions chest - the only two pastimes that had kept him sane over the last two years.

He closed his eyes and swallowed around the lump in his throat.  This was really happening.  What was he going to do without his magic?

“What time is Mr Dickelson coming tomorrow?”

Draco knew that there was no way his mother had forgotten, but somehow repeating it made it seem more real.

“Half past nine in the morning.”

Jaw tight, she jerked her head in little bobs.  Watching her trying to maintain her composure was beginning to tear his own to shreds.

She eased her way toward his bed and stroked one of the robes lying there.  “And are you planning to take your regular clothing, or do you intend to transfigure your robes into…”  She glanced at him, nose slightly scrunched.  “...muggle wear?”

Draco felt a wave of embarrassed heat flow through him.  The elephant was out.  “No, I’m planning to take my own clothes.  I wanted to have something appropriate for when I meet the Grangers, though.”

He looked down at his get-up and felt that some sort of justification was necessary.  Gripping the aged _Prophet_ from beside his pillow, he thrust it in her direction.

“What’s this?”  She scanned the headlines.  “New Year’s, 1974.  Wait.  This was the edition that announced my engagement to your father.  Draco, where did you get this?”

He shrugged.  “The library.”

He had spent hours this afternoon looking for books about muggles, and was unable to find a single one.  Not one muggle studies textbook.  Not one book written by a muggle.  Not one book with an actual picture of a muggle.  It made him feel completely ignorant and unprepared for what lay ahead.

He had, however, found this.  He stepped closer to his mother and pointed to indicate an article on the third page.

 _Lead Singer of the Cheeky Chimaeras Names Famous Muggle Musician as Current Inspiration_  

The accompanying photograph showed a lean man with a slight smile dressed in the exact same fashion that Draco now wore.  The caption read: _Trendy Muggle Musician David Bowie_.

His mother bit her lips and nodded, eyes wide.

“Perhaps Mrs Granger will take me shopping for additional muggle clothing once I’m settled.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Draco regretted them.  His mother’s eyes were starting to tear up.  Shopping was one of her favourite diversions, and knowing that some other woman might be buying things for her son was likely crushing her.

He watched her blink rapidly.  Then, with the strength of a woman whose home had once been commandeered and who had been witness to terrifying atrocities within its walls, she smoothly slid a mask into place.  With forced casualness, she said, “Have you enough money?”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Hermione burst through the green floo flames into the ramshackle Swig and Swagger Pub, wand tight in hand, teeth clenched with worry.  This was the sixth stop in the past three hours, and her compassion was quickly ebbing away.

The place was poorly lit, with dark paneled walls and creaky wooden table sets.  It smelled of broken dreams and human bodily fluids.  Perhaps some other time she would recommend some charms to freshen it up, but for now, she was on a quest.

She maneuvered her way toward the bar, eyes frantically flitting across the patrons.

About five yards shy of the counter, a red-eyed, stubble-cheeked wizard of around thirty approached her.

Hermione groaned inwardly.  Couldn’t he see that she was looking for someone?

“Hullo, Beaut-”

“ _Confundo_.”  Hermione had no patience left to deal with niceties tonight.  The wizard waddled away in a stupor.

“Feck, Granger! That was bleedin rapid!”

Hermione’s head swung toward the bar.

“Seamus! I was hoping that you were working tonight!  Have you seen Ron?”

“I have.  Mate’s been in here all afternoon.”

Hermione immediately spun, eyes peering into the darkness.

“Must say I was surprised that you’ve not been spending, y’know, _quality_ time together…”

Hermione instantly turned back and glared at Seamus.  What by Godric’s Ghost did he mean by that?  Was Ron discussing their sex life?  Or did Seamus know about her secret upcoming role in Malfoy’s sentence?  Her stomach clenched.

She was just about to launch an interrogation when she noted that Seamus was gesturing toward a dark booth along the right-hand wall.  Hermione’s heart stopped and muscles tensed when she noted that Ron wasn’t alone…and that his companion was of the long-legged, svelte blonde variety.

Seamus’s gaze flicked between Hermione and the booth, his hip leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.  A smile bloomed across his face.  “Now, now, Fine Thing, don’t jump to conclusions.  But…I must say I’ve been waiting fer days to see ya eat da head off him.”

Hermione’s eyes riveted on her boyfriend.  Even in the shadows, she could see that his upper body was slumped on the table, his left arm barely succeeding in propping his head upright as he gazed up at the smiling woman across from him.

Hermione was about to march over there when Seamus’s words suddenly penetrated.  She turned, giving him her full attention.

“Days?  Has...has Ron been in here much before?  With... her?”  He was supposedly on an auror mission the past two days.

Seamus gave a slow nod, casually flicking his wand to send a small blast of warm air to dry off the bar top.  “He’s becoming a regular ‘round here, but I’ve only seen him wit’ her a few times.  They work together, I think.”

“At the Ministry? But Ilkley is quite out of the way…”

Seamus simply raised an eyebrow.  A bolt of nausea struck Hermione in the gut.

“Well,” Seamus asked expectantly.  “Aren’t ya gonna give out to him?  Where’s yer fire, Granger?”

Hermione couldn’t seem to move.  Somewhere in her mind she knew she should be irate - even Seamus was anticipating her having a go at Ron - but she just felt...heavy, as if she were made of stone.  It was one thing for Ron to succumb to excessive drinking as a form of escape, but it was another issue altogether that he’d been lying to her.  She could feel tears welling up in her eyes.

Seamus’s teasing expression swiftly shifted to concern.  “Oi. Granger.  Hermione!”  He reached across the bar and shook her gently by the shoulders.  “Look, Ron’s being a right eejit.  It’s what he does.  Now, ya go over there and smack him in the gob so that you can make up and go home together!”

Hermione peered through the darkness at Ron and the blonde witch, but she directed her sad smile and whispered words to Seamus.  “That’s always our story, isn’t it?  Ron acts an arsehole, I attack him; he apologises, then we make up.  Then it starts again.  I...I had hoped we were past this by now.”

She turned and grabbed a small paper napkin from the bar.  Transfiguring a toothpick into a quill, she hastily wrote a note.  “Will you promise me that you’ll make sure he gets home all right?”

Seamus was frowning and scrutinizing her face.  Godric, she wanted to get out of there.

“Please, Seamus.  I can’t talk to him when he’s this sloshed.  He won’t even remember, and we’ll get nowhere.”

At his miniscule nod, Hermione sighed with relief.  “Thank you.  And would you give this to him for when he sobers up?”  She slid the napkin across the bar top.

Seamus skimmed the message, his eyebrows shooting to his hairline.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione just waved her hand.

“Really?” he managed to squeak out.  He made a show of looking her up and down, a small smirk burgeoning.

She nodded, pushing herself away from the counter and toward the floo.  “Ya do have a spark o’ fire in ya yet, Granger.  Fierce ya are!”

“Thanks for your help, Seamus.”  Hermione shot one last look in Ron’s direction before grabbing a fistful of floo powder, wanting nothing more than to yank off her lacy knickers, wrap up in homely flannelette pyjamas, and bury herself in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To me, Ron has always been one to vacillate between heady emotions, and in the post-war period I'd suspect that his swings would be even more marked. He's been quite a jerk in the last few chapters, but sweet sincere Ron will be making an appearance soon. He wouldn't be able to tug at Hermione's heartstrings otherwise...
> 
> Oh, and Hermione's note will make a reappearance in chapter 5...


	4. Odds and Oddities

**Monday, June 15, 1998**

 

Hermione ran up dusty marble steps to the 6th floor, trying not to spill her tea as she maneuvered around the rubble and broken objects that had been hastily formed into piles throughout the corridor.  Pausing to catch her breath, she knocked on the door of Professor Slughorn’s office.   _Blast it_.  She couldn’t believe that she was almost late for such an important meeting.

“Come in, Miss Granger.”

She hurried into the room, her eyes immediately roving every corner to make sure that it was safe.  The office was almost completely back to its pre-war state, with its richly coloured hangings and the subtle smell of pipe smoke.  A sudden feeling of nostalgia flashed through her at the memory of simpler times.

Minerva McGonagall promptly stepped forward and touched her shoulder.  “Hermione, are you all right?”  More quietly she added, “You seem a bit ill.”

Hermione’s free hand darted up to cover her cheek.  “Oh, um, I’m fine, Professor.  I just...had difficulty sleeping last night.”

She hadn’t had much time to fix her appearance this morning.  Could they tell that she’d been crying?  

The headmistress’s hand eased toward Hermione’s upper back and guided her further into the room.  “Hermione, you know Professor Slughorn, of course, and this is Mr Oddy from the Floo Network Authority.”

A thin, slightly balding wizard with a mousy moustache grabbed her hand and shook it enthusiastically.  “Good morning, Miss Granger.  It’s such an honour to meet you in person.”

He looked her over gleefully.  “And may I say, you are even lovelier than your photographs in the _Daily Prophet_.”  Apparently, he was too starstruck to care about her red eyes.

“Um, thank you Mr Oddy. Have -”

“Please, call me Ian.”  The corners of his moustache curved upward as his smile widened.

“Uh, Ian.  Have you been able to connect my parents’ home?”

“Yes, yes, we should be all set.  We’ll test it out once Duncan Dickelson returns.”

Hermione looked toward the headmistress.  “Mr Dickelson was already here?”

McGonagall nodded.  “Yes, he left a short time ago to retrieve Mr Malfoy.  We’re also still expecting your healer from St Mungo’s…”

Hermione took a sip of her now lukewarm tea as Slughorn’s fireplace blazed to life.  A tall, middle-aged wizard with wavy, dark brown hair stepped forward, brushing the stray soot from his grey muggle suit.  He glanced up at Hermione, an amused light in his eyes, as the fire blazed again.

Hermione’s tea exploded from her lips, and her arm instantly shot up to cover her mouth.  What in the name of Merlin?!

The green flames dissipated to reveal Draco Malfoy hugging a towering stack of trunks to his body, his limbs a jumbled mass of clashing colours.  His arms and back were cloaked in a powder blue jacket so snug that it raised up as a result of his outstretched arms, showing off every contour of his tight arse in his saffrony trousers.  His red shoes gleamed like polished garnets.

A little giggle slipped out before Hermione could stop it, and soon it grew to an outright laugh, causing Malfoy to glare at her with furrowed blond eyebrows.  His face turned nearly as bright a red as his shoes, and Hermione started howling with laughter.  A niggling thought reminded her that she was being terribly rude, but she couldn’t help it.  Godric, she hadn't laughed in so long!

McGonagall cleared her throat, and Hermione pressed her arm across her abdomen to gain some semblance of control.

Dickelson, Oddy, and Slughorn started helping Malfoy pull his trunks out of the fireplace, and once Hermione caught a glimpse of the striped oxford and polka dotted tie, a new wave of laughter washed over her, causing her to snort with mirth.

“So glad I can provide you entertainment, Granger.  I’m at your service, apparently.”

The bitterness of Malfoy’s words reminded her of how humbling this whole situation must be for him.  She took some deep breaths.  “Malfoy, why are you wearing that?”

He remained silent for so long that at first she thought he was going to ignore her.  Finally he admitted quietly, “I wanted a muggle outfit to meet your parents.”  His eyes were trained on the wall.

Instantly, she recovered her composure.  He wanted to make a good impression?  For some reason, he, Draco Malfoy, cared about what they - the _muggle_ Grangers - thought of him.  Definitely surprising.

She sighed.  “Here. Let me fix it.”

He shot her a look of utter suspicion.

“Malfoy, you’re obviously going to have a lot to adjust to.  Let me fix your clothes while we carry on with this meeting.  I would be jeopardizing us all if I let you walk around Sutton like that.  A person who could carry off this outfit is as rare as a three-headed dog.”

Malfoy’s nose scrunched up, but Dickelson smiled and winked at her in approval.  He clapped his hands once together.  “Brilliant.  While Hermione sets to work on that, let’s discuss the plan.  First, you’ll note that we are using Professor Slughorn’s floo.  This is the only floo currently set up linking Hogwarts to Malfoy Manor and the Granger home.  Draco, unless Hermione side-along apparates you somewhere, all of your magical travel will take place through here, and you will only be able to exit at those two locations.  Professor Slughorn has assured us of your open access to this floo port.”

“Yes, glad to be of help,” Slughorn put in awkwardly.

“Anything to add, Ian?”

Oddy gave a startled cough and turned his attention to Malfoy, smile gone.

“Uh, you should be aware that Malfoy Manor and the Grangers’ residence are not directly connected to each other. For added security, you know.  Also, there is time-stamp technology at the wards on each of the floo ports, so the Ministry will be able to monitor when you travel to each location.”

Dickelson nodded.  “And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that it’s of benefit to all to keep the identity of your host family a secret, so please use discretion.  It’s also adv-”

A knock sounded on the door, and Slughorn opened it to a tired-looking brunette witch in her mid-thirties wearing the lime-green robe of a St Mungo’s healer.  “So sorry I’m late.  It’s difficult to get away these days.”

She looked around the room and smiled at McGonagall, who strode forward to link their arms.

“Moira, lovely to see you.  Hermione, this is Healer Moira Markley, one of my former students.  She is brilliant and will be of great assistance to you, I’m sure.”

Hermione flashed the witch a smile, vaguely noticing Malfoy’s jolt of surprise.  “So nice to meet you.  Do we depart today?”

“Yes, just as soon as you’re ready.  We already have a portkey arranged.”

A happy, nervous anticipation blossomed in Hermione’s gut.  This was really happening!

Malfoy’s head pivoted.  “What?  Where is Granger going?”  He looked so alarmed that Hermione bit the smile from her lips.

Everyone looked at each other, unsure of who should respond.  After a beat, McGonagall broke the silence.  “Hermione is going on a trip abroad for an indeterminate time.  Until she returns, you shall remain here at Hogwarts.  Professor Slughorn has prepared a protected space for you to sleep.”

She turned her attention to Hermione. “But I have faith that with Moira’s help, you’ll be back very soon.”  Hermione felt her smile spread.  

“Oi!”

Belatedly, Hermione realised that her wand was still trained on Malfoy and that he was gripping his now too-large trousers to prevent them falling to his ankles.  “Oh, sorry!”

She quickly adjusted the size, stepping back to examine her work.  Malfoy’s trousers had become dark blue jeans, his red and grey oxford a stark white one, and his waistcoat battleship grey.  She had moulded the jacket into a more modern cut and cast it in navy blue.  She kept the patent leather material of the shoes, but changed them to a russet brown hue.  Now for the last touch.

She stepped in front of Malfoy and reached up to pull off the silvery tie.  He jerked back slightly but didn’t stop her as his cautious eyes peered down.  He’d grown quite tall, leaving her eyes level with his chin.  If it weren’t Malfoy and if there hadn’t been an audience, she might have thought the situation a bit sexy.  Stepping back, tie in hand, she waved her wand and turned it into a brown leather belt.

A wave of melancholy hit her.  If Ron were standing before her, she would playfully wrap him with the belt, and then he would smile wide and kiss her to distraction before grabbing it from her and teasing her right back with it.  ...At least, the Ron she once knew would do that.

Pulling her thoughts back to reality, she unceremoniously thrust the belt toward Malfoy.  “Here, put this on.”

She looked around the room to find Dickelson nodding in appreciation.  “Much better.  Well done, Hermione.”

“Yes, at least an ‘exceeds expectations,’ I should think,” Healer Markley joked, glancing at their former Transfiguration professor.

Belt fastened, Malfoy rested a hand on his chest and glanced down his front.  The eyes that he raised to Hermione glinted with uncertainty.  “Will your parents think this acceptable?”

His honest question shocked her.  He deserved a sincere response.  “Yes.  They are rather traditional, and this is a very classic look.  You look good.”  Really good.  Chic and attractive and...hot.  Try as she might, she could not picture Ron ever looking so sharp.

Another clap from Dickelson broke the moment.  “Excellent.  Well, I’m sure that Hermione and Moira are eager to be on their way, so there’s just one thing left to do.  We need to test the floo access to the Granger household and ensure that all of the necessary wards are set up.  Ian, is everything prepared?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dickelson held out his upturned hand toward Hermione.  “Well then, my dear, we’ll let you lead the way back home.”

Hermione bit her lips and nodded, shuffling toward the fireplace.  Tears started to leak from the corners of her eyes.   _She was going home_.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco stumbled to a halt in a cramped fireplace, stomach churning and heartbeat thumping like an agitated garden gnome.  He was _not_ nervous.  They were just bloody muggles.  What could they do to him?  They were powerless.  Hadn’t he known of countless muggles crumpling over the past year, some under the influence of bumbling, idiotic snatchers?

Bile shot into his throat at the memories.  What had Granger told her parents about him?  Did they know that he was a convict?  Or that he had harassed her for years?  Or that their daughter bore the physical evidence of his family’s hatred on her arm?  Salazar, her scar had taunted him all morning, clearly visible as she’d moved about in her short-sleeved cyan blue top.  He had tried not to notice it, but it screamed at him: _Look you evil bastard! I’m proof of your fucking cowardice!_

He took a breath as the floo fired behind him, McGonagall squeezing into the tight space, followed almost immediately by Oddy.  Was every bloody person coming?

He quickly brushed at his trouser legs and stepped forward into a tiny sitting area, his attention immediately pulled to the sight of Granger spinning in circles, wand extended, lips murmuring what he assumed was an extensive assortment of protective spells.  Tear stains trailed down her face.

Draco moved awkwardly to the side, taking in his surroundings.  Dickelson was standing beside a piano on the opposite side of the room, his arms casually crossing his chest.  Directly in front of the fireplace was a stuffed sofa, a coffee table, and two wingback chairs.  Sunlight shone through large windows, making the pale blue walls seem almost white.  Shelves of books lined the walls, and photographs stared at him, eerily frozen.  There were some large metallic cubes and other smaller objects that he’d never seen before.

From where he stood, he could see a cramped entryway that faced a street, along with a narrow stairwell to the next floor.  To his left was a dining area that had a glass door opening to a patch of grass enclosed by a wooden fence.  The entire ground floor could fit in his entry hall at home.

Tight and trapped, and without magic.  His heart started racing and his eyes became wet as a feeling of claustrophobic homesickness washed over him.  He blinked hard, consciously schooling his face into a mask of stone.

Granger lowered her wand and looked at Dickelson.  “Can we make the house unplottable?”

“Unfortunately no, since this home needs to function as a muggle residence.  Unplottibility will interfere with the post, as well as cable, telephone lines, gas, electricity, utilities…”

Was Dickelson still speaking English?  Draco had lost him after ‘post.’  The churning in his stomach intensified.

Granger nodded solemnly, then glided toward the dining area.  “Do they still work?”

Dickelson nodded as Granger flicked something on the wall with her hand.  The room filled with light.  She then moved into another room, everyone trailing behind her.

There were smooth countertops and lots of cupboards.  It reminded Draco of a potion prep room, except that there were strange gadgets everywhere, including an upright rectangular box that was as tall as his nose.  It was humming at him.  Again, lights flashed on, and then Granger twisted a knob by a sink, staring at the water that came out.  She sniffed and then quickly opened a nearby cupboard, admiring the tumblers and teacups inside.  A tear was starting to fall down her cheek.

Why the fuck was she crying?  Draco too clearly remembered the last time he had witnessed tears sliding on her face, and he would pay a vast sum to forget it.

Cradling something in her hand - a hideously painted and ill-formed mug by the looks of it - Granger glanced at Dickelson and said with awe, “I can’t believe that you recovered so much from my memories.  Your team is really remarkable.”

“Well, I must say that you have one of the most detailed memories I’ve ever encountered.”  Dickelson smiled broadly.  “I hated confronting people like you when I worked as an obliviator - so many neural connections.  But for the reverse direction, it’s obviously a tremendous advantage.”

Wait. Why were they talking about memories?  And why was Granger acting surprised to see her own house?  It was her house, wasn’t it?  He knew that she’d been on the run for the year with her idiot boyfriends, but her parents lived here, didn’t they?

He tried to follow their conversation, but as they started talking of banking and bills and dental something or other, his attention was drawn to a gadget sitting on the countertop near the window.  It was a white-coloured cube with two rectangular holes on the top and silver parts inside. There were two stubs sticking out of slits on one end, and a tail connected it to the wall.  

He was about to poke at it when a flash outside the window jolted him erect.  Peering through the glass, he caught sight of a billowing black robe, and instantly he tumbled backward into the big humming box.  Was it Rowle? Or Crabbe Sr?  Of the Death Eaters still at-large, they were the two most likely to actively seek him out.

“Mr Malfoy!  What’s the matter?”  McGonagall was beside him in an instant.

He fumbled for his wand, which of course the fucking DMLE specialists had confiscated this morning at the Manor, just before they’d seared away his magic with a burning curse that had struck right to his core.  Draco pointed to the window.  “Someone’s outside.”

Granger and Dickelson immediately came to attention, wands in hand, stealthily moving back towards the dining room.  McGonagall positioned herself in front of Draco, her wand at the ready, essentially trapping him against the humming box.  He felt like a pathetic, helpless child, depending on an old witch to protect him.

Suddenly, Draco heard a rap on glass and he involuntarily gasped, the air static in his lungs.  A slight scraping sound filled the tense atmosphere, and he assumed that the glass door in the dining area was sliding open.

Granger’s voice carried from the other room.  “Harry?”

Potter.  Of course.  The git always had impeccable timing.

McGonagall’s shoulders relaxed, and she tucked away her wand.  Granger’s voice grew incredulous.  “Harry, what are you doing here?  Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

The agitated voice of the Boy Who Never Died wafted in through the doorway.  “Hermione!  I was worried that you’d already left!”

McGonagall and the Oddy bloke shuffled away to join the others, but Draco had no interest in Perfect Potter.  He had more pressing interests, such as where he was going to sleep.  He had half a mind to go exploring the house on his own, but years of being surrounded by dark artefacts had taught him that danger awaited fools who crept into unknown spaces.  He stood in the open doorframe between the two rooms, arms crossed, and gave a little huff of impatience.  No one seemed to notice.

Dickelson was looking distressed.  “Mr Potter, how were you able to apparate here?  We’ve got heavy wards in addition to a number of protective enchantments!”

Potter’s startled eyes sought out Granger, who intervened with fervor.  “I enabled him access.  Harry will always be welcome wherever I am.”   _Aw.  How sweet_.

Dickelson’s frown was troubled.  “My team has spent a lot of time working to ensure your protection and to maintain compliance with the Statute of Secrecy.  We don’t want to have issues with your neighbours because you’re allowing friends to apparate in the backyard.  We are too busy to keep -”

“I understand, Mr Dickelson, and I appreciate it.  But Harry will always be welcome.  I can assure you that he will use discretion, and I will take responsibility for any repercussions.  Your office needn’t be bothered.”

“Do you plan to allow other friends such access?  Mr Weasley, too, I’m assuming?”

There was a long pause.  “No.  Just Harry.”

Multiple pairs of eyebrows raised collectively.  Hoohoo - trouble within the Golden Trio?

The corners of Potter’s mouth turned down.  “Hermione, that’s what I want to see you about.  Look, Seamus brought Ron to my house last night and -”

“Harry, this is not the time or the place.”

“I know, but you’re leaving and he needs -”

Granger’s hands flew to her hips.  “What about what _I_ need, Harry?!  I’m on the brink of doing something incredibly important to me and he was -”

Potter raised a hand in front of her.  “He _needs_ to _apologise_.  I came to see if you’re okay.”

Granger’s jaw was clenched tight, but her eyes started to glisten with moisture.  Again.

All at once, a _muffliato_ haze hung in the air.  Damn.  It was just getting interesting.

McGonagall gripped Draco by the elbow.  “Let’s give them some privacy.  Come, Mr Malfoy.  We’ll take a tour.”

They spent the next few minutes exploring the house while Dickelson and Oddy made a pretense of tweaking the floo.  In addition to what he’d already seen, the ground floor had a narrow library space filled with more shelves of books, lamps, and soft chairs as well as a lavatory and storage space under the staircase.  At least everything seemed clean and orderly.

The first floor held two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small office, while the very top storey was taken up by a master bedroom suite.  Draco only got a fleeting glimpse of Granger’s room before McGonagall promptly shut the door.  McGonagall mentioned that Granger had no siblings, so they assumed that the adjacent guest bedroom would be his.

Draco blinked his eyes a few times as he entered.  Everything was white: the desk tucked into an alcove beneath a small window, the curtains that partially obscured the view of the neighbouring house, the chest of drawers with a vase of fake daisies resting on top, and the fluffy bedding that was perfectly aligned.  Both the bed and the room itself were much smaller than at the Manor, but at least they were a step up from the shared dormitory at Hogwarts.

McGonagall turned to start heading back downstairs, and Draco realised that now was the best moment to ask the questions that had been spinning in his mind.

“They’re not here, are they?”

McGonagall stopped at the top stair and twisted her upper body toward him, her mouth a bit pinched.  “No.”

“That healer mentioned a portkey.  Granger’s going to bring them back.  To Britain.”  It wasn’t a question, but he needed to be sure.

“Yes.”

“Did they leave because of the war?”  McGonagall gave a hesitant nod, and then she resumed her descent, obviously done with his questioning.

As he followed her down, upbeat music reached his ears, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.  When he approached the bottom of the staircase, he caught sight of Potter and Granger standing close together in the sitting room.  Dickelson and Oddy were gone.  

A man with a strong but somewhat high voice was singing the vocals of the song, something about “I want you back,” and “How many times must I say I’m sorry,” and “You’re all I need,” and “You can run, and you can hide, but I’m not leaving ‘less you come with me…”

Granger’s head tipped onto Potter’s shoulder as the Chosen One’s hand began rubbing up and down her spine.  Ugh.  Draco wanted to leave but they were blocking the path to the floo.

“This really is amazing, Hermione,” Potter was saying.  “Who knew that wizardkind could create a memory-generated, magically produced CD that can actually play like the original?  Is it the same for the telly?  Have you checked yet?”

Granger appeared too lost in her thoughts to have heard him.  The music faded out, and a new song instantly began, slower and a bit more somber.  The sound seemed to be coming from a silver box on a shelf.

At the first few bars of music, Granger sucked in air and turned her face into Potter’s chest.  He tightened his arms as her body shook with a sob.

_How can I just let you walk away, just let you leave without a trace_

_When I stand here taking every breath with you, ooh_

_You’re the only one who really knew me at all…_

“Do you want me to turn it off?”  Potter’s voice was concerned.

Granger fervently shook her head against him.  Was this about her parents or the git Weasel?  Something about the song was affecting her.

Suddenly Draco noticed McGonagall looking pointedly at him, but he ignored her and focused on deciphering the music.

_...just the memory of your face_

_Ohh take a look at me now; well there’s just an empty space_

_And you coming back to me is against the odds and that’s what I’ve got to face..._

“You’ll find them, Hermione.  You are the most brilliant person I know.  You’ll fix their memories and bring them back, just like you’ve been dreaming about all year.”

Granger’s slightly muffled voice squeaked out, “But so much could go wrong.  What if I hurt them, Harry?”

“You won’t.”

“What if they hate me for what I did to them?”

All at once, the final pieces fell together.  Granger had obliviated her own parents.  To protect them.  From people like _him_.

Fuck.  Did the guilt never stop?  He stomped forward, jostling his way around the startled duo, his eyes firmly focused on the floo-port out of there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil Collins Serious Hits...Live! Atlantic Records, 1990. Track 1: Something Happened on the Way to Heaven. Track 2: Against All Odds


	5. Dejection and Distraction

**Thursday, June 18, 1998**

 

Hermione glanced quickly over her shoulder as she strode past the palm trees to the door of the quaint white cottage.  She smoothed her t-shirt and combed her fingers through her hair, sucking in a deep breath.  Her teeth pinched her lips as her hand knocked hesitantly on the door.   _Today would be the day_.

She shifted on her feet as the door slowly opened, revealing the lean frame of her father.  Hermione’s heart thundered and her eyes filled with moisture.   _Today had to be the day_.

He looked her up and down, his brow furrowing slightly.  After a long pause, he said, “Can I help you?”

Hermione’s heart plummeted.  Again.  “Um...”  The tears started to spill out.  “I’m, uh, looking for Dr Alan Granger.”

She stared into his face, seeing nothing but confusion.  Reluctantly, she gripped her wand through her shorts.

“There’s no Dr Gr -”

 _Confundo_.  She turned and ran back down the driveway, down the street, and across several intersections before finally dropping unceremoniously onto a patch of grass near the waterfront.  She immediately pulled her knees to her chest, tears leaking out from behind the hands covering her face.  She tried to keep it in - making a public scene would _not_ help - but audible sobs escaped her, and her body shook involuntarily.

A hand rested on her back, and Hermione flinched.  Moira.

“May I sit with you, Hermione?”

Hermione didn’t respond - didn’t even uncover her face - but she sensed the healer settle onto the grass beside her, casting a disillusionment charm around them.

“Will he...be all right?”  It was barely a whisper.

“I think so,” Moira replied.  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Hermione gave way to her emotions, severe sobs wracking her body.  She was vaguely aware of Moira rubbing her hand on her back.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione.  I shouldn’t have pushed for you to try this again today.  I was just so encouraged after last night.  I really do think that we’re on the right track, though.  It just takes time.  We’ve only been at it for three days.”

“This...this is the...hardest thing...I’ve ever had to do.”

“I know.  And that’s really saying something.”

“I thought I could handle this, but it’s _unbearable_ , Moira.  Maybe I should just leave them.  They’re happy here... We’ll just tell the Ministry that we couldn’t -”

“Hermione, we’re not giving up.”  The brunette healer sighed heavily.  “Your parents may be happy here, but if you leave them, they will always sense that something important is missing.  I hear it again and again from patients who have been obliviated.  And you…it will _haunt_ you.”

Moira’s eyes unfocused a bit, as if lost in thought.  She shook her head slightly and redirected her gaze to Hermione.  “But...I’m thinking that we should give you a break, Hermione.  You should take a few days away from them.”

“But-”

“It’ll give them a chance to rest, too - give the spells a chance to really penetrate.  Maybe you could do some sightseeing.”

Hermione lifted her head at that, shooting a sardonic look at the middle aged witch.  

Moira’s hands flipped up. “Okay, okay.  No sightseeing.  You can do your reading or research or whatever, but no contact.  Agreed?”

Hermione was about to respond when she noted that Moira’s brows were suddenly furrowed, her gaze locked on something in the distance.  Hermione followed the line of vision, and her mouth dropped open in disbelief.

Near the boardwalk about twenty-five yards away stood a young man with long red shorts and a light grey t-shirt boasting the image of a kangaroo and ‘CAIRNS’ printed in large black letters.  He was squinting in their direction, munching on what looked like a kebob with big, open-mouthed bites.  His red hair was slightly ruffled from the breeze.

Ron.

Moira apparently recognised him, too, because she cancelled the disillusionment charm and began to stand.  “It looks like someone is here to see you.”

Hermione swiped at her wet face with her fingers and then slowly rose to her feet.  

Moira’s voice was light.  “Well, I think I’ll go make some floo calls.”  When the healer’s eyes connected with Hermione’s, however, her expression became concerned.  Frowning, she said, “Unless you want me to stay…”

“What? No-”

Ron was already striding towards them, a brilliant smile lighting his face.

“Hermione!” Hand raised in a wave, he practically skipped to her.

“No, no. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

Moira’s brow was scrunched as she darted her gaze back and forth between Hermione and her... boyfriend?  ex-boyfriend?  Hermione’s mind immediately flashed back to the last time she’d seen him, sitting drunk in a bar with another witch, and she realised that there was so much to say that she didn’t even know how to start.  Her emotions were so wild at the moment that she didn’t know if she should punch him or snuggle into his familiar embrace.

Ron slowed as he came before her, his arms wide, a sheepish expression on his face.  “Hermione, love -”

Her palm struck his face with a crack so loud that passersby turned to look.

Moira gasped.

“Mione! Hey!”  Ron’s hand lifted to his cheek.  “Okay, _maybe_ I deserved that, but I came to talk about it...please.”  His voice was pleading.

Hermione’s voice turned flat.  “Really, Moira, I’m fine.  I’ll see you in a bit.”

The healer eyed her sceptically.  With a pointed glance at Ron, Moira nodded and started walking back across the grass, swiveling her head back every few yards to check on them.

Hermione sighed.

“Who was that?” Ron demanded.  As if he had any right to be asking the questions.

“What are you doing here, Ron?  How did you even find me?”  

“I came to see you...to see how you are.  You told me that your parents were in Cairns.”

She did?  Wow.  Maybe he actually had been listening.

He continued, “I hate how we left things, Mione.  It took me a bit to arrange the portkey, but I finally got here late last night.”

“Why, Ron?  You have work, don’t you?  Wouldn’t want to leave Blondie hanging.”

She hated how bitter the words sounded.

“Mione, look, I realise what you saw in Ilkley, but it’s really nothing.  Samantha is just a colleague.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just quirked an eyebrow at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on.  Maybe he’d eventually shove his foot in enough that the full truth would come dribbling out.

He started to fidget, his thumbs rubbing against his fingernails.  Once he realised that Hermione wasn’t going to let him off the hook, he huffed out a breath and ran his hand through his hair.

“It’s the truth, Mione.  Nothing has happened between us.  She was a few years ahead of us in Hufflepuff, and she left with her family to Canada before the war.  Now she’s back in Britain and is training to be an auror.  That’s it.”

“That’s it, huh?  Yet you run to her when you’re bored of your girlfriend.”

A corner of his mouth slid up, and his eyes grew puppy-dog wide with sincerity.  “I could never be bored of you, Mione.”  Hesitantly, he reached out a hand to her arm.  Her stomach flipped pathetically.  “You’re brilliant and beautiful and strong and all that I’ve ever wanted.”

Hermione didn’t want him to affect her - not his words or his sweet tone or that tender look in his eyes - but she could feel herself being pulled back to him, felt that familiar desire to snuggle her body against his.  With his left hand caressing her arm, his right hand dove into the pocket of his shorts.  “How could I ever be bored of a woman who’d write something like this?”

Hermione watched as he tugged out some squashed paper - the pub napkin.

Smirking, he asked, “Are you really the author of this?  It looks like your handwriting.”

Hermione’s cheeks heated as he unfolded the napkin.  The strong, dark letters glimmered at her.

 

**Ron - Been looking for you for**

**3hrs. Wearing new, red lace**

**knickers. Crotchless. You’re**

**drunk with blonde bint, so I guess**

**you miss out. Leaving for Au. - H**

 

She snatched the napkin from his hand and stuffed it in her own pocket, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Hey.”  His hand rose to her face, a finger lightly tracing her jaw and gently nudging her chin up.  “You don’t need to be embarrassed with me, Hermione.”  She could hear the smile in his voice and felt him take a step closer.

“I’m not embarrassed,” she countered, glaring at him.

“Oh no?” he challenged.  His brilliant smile was back, warming his face.  Whisper soft, he declared, “There’s no need for embarrassment, love.  You can tell me anything.  I love all of you - every part.  Every soft, sweet, sticky bit.”  He was practically purring.

Hermione’s insides quivered, but her brain was screaming at her to take caution.  She cleared her throat and pressed a hand against his chest, taking a step back.  “If you think you’re getting into my knickers because of that note, Ron, you have definitely misread the message.”

He frowned a bit and straightened, the persuasive lover gone.

“Mione, look.  I know that I hurt you, and I’m sorry.  Truly.  I was a drunken fool.  But I’m not drinking now and I came all this way to be with you - not anyone else.  Of course I want to be close to you physically, but that’s not all I’m about.  Let’s...let’s just spend some time, yeah?  Let’s hang out and be together and you can tell me about how it’s going with your parents.  This has got to be bloody hard for you.  I...I just want to be here with you...for you.”

His tone was so genuine - so straight-forward and honest - that she couldn’t help wondering if he had actually matured a little.  Her resolve melted.  She nodded her head choppily and then stepped into his arms, the familiar scent of him settling over her like a security blanket.

His hand stroked up and down her spine as she snuggled her face against his neck.  After a few minutes of just holding each other, Ron said, “Soooo…who was that woman?”

Hermione smiled.

“A wise witch who suggested I do some sightseeing.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco heard Madam Pomfrey sigh as he pushed through the doors of the hospital wing for the fifth time in four days.  

“What is it this time, Mr Malfoy?”

Draco felt his cheeks heat as mortification seared through him.  He turned.  “Tail-growing hex.”

“I see.  Come in.”

She quickly set to work trying to reverse the spell.  “Are you okay?”

What a ridiculous question.  If he were okay, he sure as hell wouldn’t be there.  

His tone came out short.  “I will be once this tail is removed.”

“Don’t get snippy with me, Mr Malfoy.  I realise that this has been a difficult week for you, but I’m only trying to help.  What I meant was, do you feel safe here?”

 _No._ “I’m fine.”

“Your frequent visits to my wing would suggest otherwise.  I’d like to speak with the headmistress about finding more secluded work for you.  Would you be amenable to that?”

Draco didn’t want to discuss this, but he knew the Hogwarts healer would keep pressing.  He may as well be honest.

“She already knows that no one wants to be around me.  That’s why I do most of my work alone.  It’s the corridors where the imbeciles like to get me, usually when I’m going to or from meals.”

Truth be told, he had kind of expected this sort of treatment from angsty teenage wizards, but apparently the adults volunteering to restore Hogwarts weren’t much more mature.

“Hm.  If that’s the case, then I’m sure other meal arrangements could be made - perhaps in the kitchens, or in Professor Slughorn’s office?  Speaking plainly, I’m worried about the amount of hexing your body is having to endure, especially since you no longer have -”

She cut herself off, but Draco supplied it for her.  “A magical core. Yes, I’m aware.”

“Yes, well, the tail is gone, but I want you to rest here for a few hours.”

Draco had to curb the urge to roll his eyes.  Instead he gave a tight nod and climbed onto the hospital bed that was becoming all too familiar.  He glanced at the side table and noticed that the book he’d been reading during past visits was still there, as if waiting for him.  He stretched his arm to grab it, opening up to chapter six of _Muggle Studies: An Introduction_.

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Oh,” Hermione breathed.  “It’s gorgeous here.”

She allowed herself all of two seconds to admire the flaming orange, pink, and purple streaks of the evening sky reflecting off of the inky blue ocean water before yanking out her wand.  

_Protego Totalum._

Ron looked up from where he was spreading a transfigured blanket onto the beach, brushing away pristine sand from the edges.  “Hermione, look around. This is a _secluded_ beach.  No one -”

She shot him a withering look.  His eyes widened and he returned his attention to the blanket.

She completed her routine in silence and turned back to find him laying down, hands cradled behind his head, bare feet burrowing into the sand.  “This is a perfect spot, Hermione.  Where did you say we are?”

“Hinchinbrook Island.  There are several remote beaches here that are often very private, especially at this time of night.  Apparently people usually take a boat and then hike in.”

“Merlin, I love apparition.”

Hermione chuckled and then plopped beside him on the blanket, crossing her legs under her.  Leaning back on her hands, she tipped her head toward the sky, admiring how the wispy clouds drifted in dark contrast to the the multi-coloured background.  She flinched as something - Ron’s fingertip, she realised - drew small circles on top of her hand.

“Why don’t you take off your shoes? Enjoy the sand between your toes?”

Hermione shot Ron an appraising look, and then she curled over and started removing her sandals.  The sand had already lost most of its daytime warmth, but it still felt comforting to let her feet sink in.  She briefly closed her eyes against the gentle breeze and allowed her muscles to relax.

And, of course, whenever her muscles relaxed, her blasted mind was ready to overcompensate.  Thoughts of her parents spontaneously flashed across her mind.  Had they ever visited here?  What were they doing right now?  Was Moira with them?

Then, despite what Moira had said earlier, the most recurrent thought hammered her: Maybe she should just leave them. _If_ their memories were to come back, they would surely hate her for what she had done.  On top of everything, she had agreed to the Ministry’s deal without their consent.  How on earth would she even explain Malfoy’s presence to them?

Shame washed over her.  She was _soooo_ selfish.  She would uproot their happy lives as Monica and Wendell Wilkins to drag them back to dreary England with her, and for what?  So they could tend to a jerk like Malfoy and watch her grow up and get a job?  She clenched her eyes and dropped her head at the absurdity of it.

“Hey.  Love.  What are you thinking about?”  Ron tapped his finger against the top of her hand.

“Nothing.”

“Uh, if I had a galleon for each time you’ve said that today, I could build my own house here on this beach.  Do you need a distraction?”

Hermione glanced over in time to see him wiggling his eyebrows.  He had been more than happy to ‘distract’ her all day: rubbing his thumb against her sensitive palm as they walked hand in hand along the Cairns Esplanade; settling her on his lap and leaving love bites on her neck as they rode a sky gondola over the rainforest; giving her a tender, spontaneous kiss on the lips in a grocery aisle as they selected food items for a picnic dinner.  It had all been so… _nice_.  So much like the way she had years ago dreamt of her life with Ron.  

She smiled.  "You’re exaggerating.”

“You know, someone has told me before that I do that.”  His eyes twinkled at her, and she lay back on the blanket, snuggling against his side.  Her hand came to rest on the soft fabric stretching across his chest.

His arm curled around her, pulling her close, and she felt his face press against the top of her head.  “Mione?”  His hand started gliding up and down her arm.

“Hmm?”

“Do you know what this kind of reminds me of?  Last autumn, when we were in Wales and camped on the coast.  Remember how we got there just as the sun was going down over the channel?”

She did.  Harry was wearing the damned horcrux then, and as soon as camp was set up, she and Ron had sat side by side on the sandy shore, watching the waves and the sky change colour.  It wasn’t long before Harry had interrupted them, pushing them to continue with their research, but the moment had been really pleasant while it lasted.

She sighed, wanting to stop the memories before the floodgates opened.  “Yes, I do.”

Ron lifted his head slightly to survey her face, taking in her melancholy.  He dropped his head back to the blanket and uttered, “Huh.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.  You just might want to protect yourself is all.”

“What?” Hermione repeated, alarm now permeating her voice.

Ron flashed a Cheshire Cat grin.  “Because I think you've got something that belongs to me.”

Quick as a panther, he rolled over onto her and tickled her side, trying to wriggle his hand into the pocket of her shorts.  “Ron!” she laughed, squirming underneath him.  “Ronald...Bilius...Weasley!” she choked out, her hands grabbing at his wrist as her torso twisted from his playful fingers.  

He successfully managed to extract the mangled pub napkin and held it high in the air, triumphant.  “Ha!”

“That was in _my_ pocket!”  Hermione tried to make it sound like a reprimand, but her voice was light, even to her own ears.

Ron’s expression was impish.  “It has my name on it.  I never thought you would be someone to tamper with another person’s correspondence.”

“It’s got my name, too.”

“Nope.  You have one letter, and I have three.  I win.”

She reached up to snag it again, and he held it higher, his smile brilliant.  Hermione suddenly realised that his knees were straddling her hips, pinning her intimately to the blanket.  Her eyes landed on his and held, and she noticed that his light-hearted expression instantly became lit with longing.  Slowly, with gazes locked, he curled himself forward and settled his elbows next to her head, the napkin discarded on the blanket.

Hermione’s skin heated.

“Mione,” Ron breathed, and his eyes conveyed a million desires and feelings.

She whispered an answer to his unspoken question.  “Yes.”

His lips immediately dropped onto hers, soft at first but quickly becoming demanding.  He supported some of his weight on his elbows so as not to crush her, and his fingers twined in her sprawling hair.  Hermione could feel his chest brushing against hers and his groin nestling against her pelvis.

“I’ve missed you so much, Mione,” Ron whispered, his tongue forging into her mouth.

She opened herself to his kisses, curling a hand around his shoulder while the other played with his hair.

Slowly, Ron rolled them onto their sides, his hand sliding under the hem of her shirt while his lips continued their ministrations.  

Hermione allowed him to remove her shirt and bra, and she tugged off his t-shirt as his warm mouth jumped across her torso and breasts.  His hands went for the button on her shorts next, and she nodded as his eyes sought her consent.  He groaned, cupping his hands around her arse and peeling off her shorts and knickers in one fell swoop.  His big, warm hands caressed her bare hips and thighs as his mouth murmured against her collarbone.  “I’ve dreamt of us like this since Wales, Mione.  Before, even.”

Hermione hummed and closed her eyes, letting his familiar warmth seep into her bones.  This was always the best part of sex with Ron - his sweet words, his soft skin, his earthy scent, his gentle touches - all so familiar and comforting, like sliding into a favourite jumper.

She pressed kisses to his neck as his hand slid to her entrance, his thumb rubbing enthusiastically against her.  “Merlin, I want you, Mione.  I’ve missed you so much.”  His breath was hot against her ear.  “It’s been too long...”

His words invaded her relaxed mind, and her eyes popped open as a niggling thought bubbled to the surface.  They had never actually resolved the issues hanging between them, instead falling into the pattern of not talking about it and allowing the old roots of their friendship to bring them back together.  There wasn’t really closure on the Samantha thing, or the drinking issue, or the controlling behaviors, or finding time to be together…  

Hermione’s back arched as Ron’s finger penetrated, a moan rumbling from his chest.  “Merlin, Mione, you’re hot...”

This was ridiculous.  She had to turn her brain off _now_.  She wanted this.  She did.  Ron was here, with her, in this beautiful place.  He’d come all this way and had actually been a wonderful listener about her parents.  He deserved this...

She gripped Ron’s manhood, gliding her thumb over the head, and he moaned.  “Oh, fuck, yeah.”

His eyes became lidded as his fingers played and his lips devoured her.

Hermione shifted herself on top of him and lined herself up while Ron cupped her breasts with his palms, his lust-glazed eyes seeking out hers.  She could see how badly he wanted this, and she wanted him to have it.  Life was too short and precious to hang on to the irritating little issues that kept creeping between them.  Carefully, she slid herself back onto him, sucking in a breath as his own breathing accelerated.

Ron’s hands roamed her body as his eyes rolled back, and it wasn’t long before her movements caused the veins in his neck to bulge and his breathing to become shallow.   “Mione, oh Godric, I...”

She saw his muscles tighten, and then he released a long exhale, a slight shudder wracking his frame. 

“That...that was...you’re so bloody _brilliant._..Mione.”

Hermione took a few breaths and then reached for her wand, eager to cast a contraceptive charm.  A flicker of selfish disappointment automatically seeped in, but her brain was quick to lecture her.  She had done it for Ron, not herself, and she had been the one in control, after all.  

At her movement, Ron’s eye cracked open.  “Was that good for you, love?”

Hermione forced a smile and nestled her body against his side.  “Of course.”  And it had been - good, she supposed.  She had thought that sobriety would have made it even better, but perhaps it was more a factor of experience.  Surely the more they had sex, the better it would get.  Like any other skill, they just needed practice, and Ron certainly wasn't complaining.

She glanced at his dopey, contented grin and sighed inwardly as she rested her head against his chest.

 

~~~~~~~

 

**Saturday, June 20, 1998**

 

Hermione marched past the palm trees to the door of the quaint white cottage.  She worried her lip momentarily before inhaling deeply.  Twice.   _Today would be the day._

Nodding slightly to herself, she straightened her spine and rapped her hand against the door.

Her father’s face appeared, his eyes growing wide.

For five full seconds he said nothing, and Hermione felt her eyes begin to prickle.  Then suddenly a smile broke across his face, and he stretched out his arms.

“Hermione!  Hey, Carol!  Our Chickpea is here!”


	6. Hypocrites and Half-Truths

**Monday, June 22, 1998**

 

Hermione’s eyes frantically scanned the bustling travelers as she trooped with her parents through the Brisbane airport.  For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw the big, blonde form of Thorfinn Rowle, one of the few Death Eaters still at-large, but the presence was gone as quickly as it had appeared.  It was probably her imagination.  Still, she couldn’t help wishing that Ron were still here instead of already en route back to Britain.  She quickened her pace, hand tight on the wand in her pocket.

“Hermione, are you okay?  You seem very preoccupied.”

She glanced to her left to take in her mother’s troubled expression.

“I’m fine, Mum.  I just don’t want you to miss your flight.”

“You’re sure that you won’t come with us, Hermione?  This whole portkey thing sounds so risky…To _hurtle through space_ all the way to _England_...”

“Shhh, Mum,” Hermione reprimanded, her eyes darting to the people nearby.  In an undertone she stated, “I’ll be fine.  I’ll even arrive home before you.”

“Hermione knows what she’s doing, Carol,” her dad chimed in.  “She’s obviously become quite skilled.”  His eyebrows lifted as he gazed pointedly at the beaded bag clutched in her left hand.

Hermione almost smiled, despite her anxiety.  This morning her parents’ eyes had bugged comically wide when she’d efficiently shrunk all of their possessions and slid them into her bag.  Her parents had always _heard_ from Hogwarts staff that she was an excellent student, but as an underage witch she had never before been able to actually _do_ magic in front of them.

“Plus,” her dad continued, “she’s never given us reason not to trust her judgment.”

At any other time, his supportive words would have made her beam, but now they cut at Hermione like a dagger to the gut.  Oh, God.  They trusted her.  She felt buried by the weight of her continued deception.

Moira had been of the opinion that Hermione should explain everything to her parents - the full truth - but when Hermione had turned it around and asked the healer how she’d respond if _her_ daughter had run after a demented tyrant like Voldemort, Moira had reluctantly agreed to plant some new ‘memories.’  Thus, Drs Alan and Carol Granger now believed that they were returning home after a year-long sabbatical, and that Hermione had come to help them pack for the journey back.

They approached the knot of passengers huddled around the boarding gate for the QANTAS flight to London via Singapore.  Hermione surveyed the crowd again, a tingle of unease racing through her.  She was being watched - she felt it to her bones - and even though she knew it was probably just Moira making sure that Hermione didn’t do something temptingly stupid like abscond with her parents to Tahiti, she clenched her concealed wand so tightly that her fingers ached.

A hand flashed through her peripheral vision, and Hermione jolted slightly before recognizing that her mum was gently brushing her hair back from her face.

“Why not come with us, Hermione?  We haven’t seen you in ages, and you seem so...so...”  Her mum glanced at her dad, obviously trying to find the right word.

“Run down,” her dad supplied.

Her mum had been fussing about Hermione’s weight loss and pallor for the last two days.  Add in her emotionality at finally connecting with her parents again, and they probably thought that she was truly ill.

Hermione forced herself to look straight into her mother’s worried eyes, trying not to focus on the growing queue of people waiting to board the flight.  A lump clogged her throat.  It was wholly unfair that she had to separate from her parents again so soon, but Moira was keen to get back to her own family, and ever since the British and Australian Ministries got word of their success, they were eager to get Hermione and her family off of their caseload with the least amount of cost and complication possible.  They weren’t about to doctor fake documents to get her onto an already full flight.

“Trust me, Mum.”  The hypocrisy of the words left a bitter taste.  “This is the best way.  I’ll be there to meet you when you arrive in London tomorrow, and then we’ll have a lot more time to catch up.”

An intercom suddenly crackled, and the voice of an Aussie woman announced boarding for her parents’ rows.  Carol Granger nodded and opened her arms, and Hermione stepped eagerly into them, savoring the long forgotten feeling of being nurtured.  It only lasted a moment, though, because the horrid feeling of being watched was upon her again.  She quickly stood upright and noted a tall, stocky man with dark blonde hair - not Rowle, she could see now - propped against the wall skimming a newspaper.  His pose was nonchalant, but something about him screamed _Wizard!_   Hermione hastily pressed a kiss to her dad’s cheek and _pushed_ her parents toward the dwindling queue at the gate, impatient to get them out of there.

“I love you,” Hermione said.

“We love you, too, darling.  Be safe.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder again, her eyes briefly connecting with those of the man before he shook the newspaper slightly and began folding it up.

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Well, well, Malfoy.  Looks like you’re living the dream.”

Startled, Draco’s eyes shot to the doorway of the storage cupboard, his arm arrested in mid-air as he reached up to put a cleaned pixie cage on the shelf.  His heart began hammering in his chest before he realised who was invading his work space.

“What do you want, Weasley?”  Draco allowed himself a full-blown sneer.

The red-headed moron crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his shoulder against the door frame.  Draco was suddenly acutely aware that the Weasel was blocking the cupboard’s only exit.  Willing his face not to show his panic, Draco raised himself to his full height and turned toward the annoying git, cocking an eyebrow for good measure.

“I’ve come to talk to you about Hermione.”  Weasley’s tone dripped with superiority.

Draco suppressed a sigh.  “I haven’t seen her.”

“I know.  But she and her parents are on their way back, so you and I need to get clear on some things.”

Brilliant.  First the Hogwarts house-elves refused to do his laundry, and now he had to have a bloody tete-a-tete with Weasley in a cupboard.  Wonderful.

Draco waited stonily for Weasley to say something, but the ginger arsehole just stared at him through narrowed eyes.

“Forgotten what to say already, eh Weasley?  Brain a bit addled?”

Weasley shot towards him in an instant, wand drawn.  “Don’t fucking goad me, Malfoy.”  Weasley spat the words through clenched teeth.  “If you do one single thing to Hermione or her parents, I will _end you_.  If you touch one hair, if you let loose one insult, if you talk to one unsavory dark nutter, you’ll be begging for me to Avada your arse.”

Draco forced his spine to remain straight, his eyes trained on Weasley’s wand flailing in front of his face.  He pushed words out, proud that they sounded calm and indifferent.  “My congratulations, Weasley.  You’re the tough Auror now, eh, already wielding threats against an unarmed opponent.  Why don’t you just take me out now while no one is watching?”

Weasley’s eyes were slits, but the words apparently penetrated and he backed up a step, lowering his wand half-way.  “Don’t tempt me.  Hermione seems willing to go through with Kingsley’s cockamaimy plan, so I won’t stand in the way.  But, don’t think I won’t be watching.  She has been through a ridiculous amount, and I won’t have her - or her parents - endure one more minute of disrespect from you.  She’s a better person than Harry and me put together, and she certainly deserves better than having to deal with you.”

Draco huffed a breath through his nose, but otherwise remained silent.  It’s not like he disagreed.  He wasn’t about to admit that to the Weasel, though.

He was surveying his adversary through narrowed eyes when a deafening blast propelled him toward the door of the cupboard.  The burst knocked him to the ground on top of Weasley as bits of rubble began cascading down from the ceiling above them.  Draco curled his body and covered his head with his arms, coughing as flurries of dust billowed into the air around him.  He heard a piercing scream from above, and then a four-foot section of the ceiling crashed down at once, the debris pinning him to the ground.  Freezing air suddenly encircled him, and Draco’s stomach heaved.  He barely registered the wispy, haggard form floating through the opening.

Draco sensed his energy flagging, but he was helpless to stop it.  His eyes involuntarily closed, and the last thing he heard was Weasley’s fiercely whispered, “Fucking Dementor!”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Hermione stumbled, exhausted and nauseous, into the Hufflepuff common room.  She hated traveling by portkey, and long-distance international travel was exponentially worse.  She wished she’d just throw up so that her insides would calm down.  

She’d planned to grab her belongings from her room and then return to her parents’ house, but she was seriously tempted to take a nap first.  The last few hours had been taxing - first getting her parents sent off and then meeting with the Australian ministry folks about wrapping up logistics before embarking on the tedious portkey journey with Moira.  

The airport stalker had in fact turned out to be a wizard from the Australian Department of Magical Law Enforcement, watching to see if she’d do as directed.  She still felt a surge of anger at the undue anxiety that he’d caused her, but she reminded herself that at least she wasn’t being trailed by Death Eaters.  She should be thankful for small blessings, she supposed.

Hermione pushed into her dormitory and stopped short as she saw Susan Bones lying on the bed next to Hermione’s.

“Sorry, Susan.  I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Hermione!  I haven’t seen you for _days_!  Are you okay?”

A small jolt of guilt shot through her.  She hadn’t told many people about Australia.  It would’ve just opened up questions that she didn’t want to discuss.  “Yes, I’m fine, Susan.  I was just visiting my parents.”

Susan propped up on her elbows, her eyes growing large.  “Did you just get back?  Have you been to the hospital ward yet?  Have you heard about Ron?”

Hermione’s eyes popped wide, her nausea forgotten.  “What about Ron?”

Susan sat all the way up, her arms flying as she narrated.  “One of the volunteer crews came across a Dementor this morning.  It was weak and had been trapped in a closet, but it grew stronger as they got closer to it.  Anyhow, they tried to blast it and ended up damaging the room.  A lot of people got hurt.  The floor fell in right on top of Ron and Malfoy, but Ron managed to destroy the evil thing with a patronus.  Everyone’s been over in the hospital wi...”

Susan hadn’t even finished her sentence before Hermione took off running.

 

~~~~~~~

 

The hospital wing was crowded, and Hermione immediately saw that McGonagall and a few volunteers were helping Madam Pomfrey.  Upon noting her presence, the headmistress strode toward Hermione and guided her into the wing’s cluttered office.

“Hermione, I’m so glad to see you.”  Hermione could instantly read the sincerity in her mentor’s eyes.  Before she could ask about Ron, however, McGonagall continued, “We need your help.”

Hermione gave a quick nod, but asked, “What about Ron?  Is he okay?”

“Oh, yes.  He’s had some chocolate and just needs to apply some salve on his injuries for a few days.  He’s still in bed but can be released soon.  He was very brave - a true Gryffindor.  He saved several people...”

Hermione smiled, feeling pride for Ron swell within.  “Do you need me to help with healing charms?  Or to gather some potions?”

“No, nothing like that.  I need you to take Mr Malfoy home.”

Hermione’s smile instantly faded.  She was hoping that she wouldn’t have to see Malfoy for a few more days so that she could let her family readjust.  

McGonagall’s face became contrite.  “I’m so sorry, my dear.  I should have asked first thing, but I’m assuming that your mission with Moira was successful?”

Hermione gave a tight nod, unable to speak.

“I’m so glad.  I was sure that you both would figure it out.”

“Why?” Hermione asked.

“Well, because you are both so brigh-”

“No.  I mean, why do I need to take Malfoy now?”

The headmistress sighed.  “He took much more of the impact than Mr Weasley.  His injuries are worse, and he has not been getting the rest here that he needs.  He will heal much better in a safe, quiet space…”

Hermione couldn’t imagine why they couldn’t find an appropriate space tucked somewhere in Hogwarts, but at the imploring look in Professor McGonagall’s eyes, Hermione knew that she would agree.  Reluctantly, she nodded her assent.

Professor McGonagall gave a little smile and clapped her hand to Hermione’s shoulder.  “Thank you, Hermione.  I’ll see that his things are prepared and that he gets discreetly moved to the floo port in Professor Slughorn’s office.”

“Professor, would you also come to my parents’ tomorrow?  To help explain to them about Malfoy?”

McGonagall’s eyes pinched a bit at the corners, but she nodded her head in agreement.  “Yes. I’ll be there.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

The noise was incessant.  Draco wanted to roll over, to shove his head under the pillow, but his limbs were like lead.  He finally managed to get onto his side and to pull a blanket up to his nose, but still the sounds throbbed in his ears.  What he wouldn’t give for a draught of Dreamless Sleep right now…

His eyelids were heavy, and he tried to steady his breathing.  How was it possible to be so tired and yet still unable to sleep?

“Mione!” he heard from the red-headed wanker in the adjacent hospital bed.  He knew he was being uncharitable given that Weasley had probably saved his life, but old habits die hard, especially when the bastard was sitting up in bed, practically unscathed, revelling in being the hero.

Draco cracked an eye in time to see the bushy-haired brainiac settle onto the edge of Weasley’s bed and then lean in to give him a kiss on the lips.  Ugh.  Draco clenched his eye shut again and turned his face further into the mattress.

“How are you feeling?”  Her tone soothed like honey, and Draco imagined that someone was saying those same words to him in that same sweet voice.

“Not bad, considering.  It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, love.”  Arrogant sod.

“I don’t even see how a Dementor could have gone undetected for so long.  It’s lucky that you were there, Ron, and knew how to defeat it before it caused worse damage.”

“Yeah, fifteen people saw it before it got to me and Malfoy, and not any of them cast a successful patronus.”  His irritating voice was absolutely smug.

There was a pause, and then the sweet tone was back.  “Why were you with Malfoy?”  She sounded genuinely curious.  Draco kept his eyes shut, but his attention was riveted on the conversation happening next to him.

“Uh,” Weasel started, and Draco felt a smirk tug at his mouth.  “I was letting him know that you were on your way home.”

In a barely audible voice, Granger whispered, “McGonagall said that he’s not doing well here.  She wants me to take him home today.”

Draco’s eyes almost flew open, but he caught himself.  He heard the unmistakable rustling of Weasley shifting off the bed.

“What?!  Your parents aren’t even back yet.  Tell her ‘no.’  He’s not your responsibility.”

“Ron!  Keep your voice down!” she reprimanded sharply.

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”  Weasel’s voice was bitter.  “Why can’t you just say ‘no’ to people?”

“Because...because this is the right thing to do, Ron.”  Her voice was soft again, and Draco was glad that his eyes were closed, because he could feel himself reddening - though from embarrassment or anger over her pity, he couldn’t tell which.  He took a restorative breath, his thoughts spinning.  He was going to be alone with Granger in her house, and amazingly, she didn’t seem concerned at all.


	7. Cauchemars and Contretemps

 

**Monday, June 22, 1998**

Hermione paced across the lavish carpets of Professor Slughorn’s office, her thoughts whirling.  Ron had just stalked off to apparate home, the hubris of his heroism doing nothing to mitigate his simmering anger at her decision to allow Malfoy into her house.  She knew that as his girlfriend she should care that he was upset - and in all fairness, if the situation were reversed, she would likely be livid, too - but she was having a difficult time feeling anything other than apathy.  Her shoulders were tight and her eyes burned from exhaustion.

She stole a quick glance at her wristwatch and was reminded to reset it from 11:40 p.m. in Cairns to 1:40 p.m. London time, which meant less than 20 hours until her parents would be home and she’d be forced to explain about their blond houseguest.  

As if the thought had summoned his arrival, the heavy office door creaked open, revealing McGonagall levitating a very sullen-faced Draco Malfoy.  

“I told you I can manage myself!  I’m not an invalid!”

“Your diagnostic report tells a different story, Mr Malfoy.  Ah!  Hermione.”  McGonagall gently lowered Malfoy onto a brown leather sofa.  “Here are the potions he’ll need for the next couple of days, and here are his belongings.”

Hermione raised her brows as the headmistress uncurled her palm to reveal several miniature trunks and a few colourful vials.  

Hermione nodded silently, tucked the items into her bag, and then walked to the sofa.  Hand outstretched, she declared, “Let’s go, Malfoy.”

He eyed her apprehensively, and then tried to push himself to his feet, deliberately ignoring her offer of help.

Hermione peered at him sceptically and then stepped back, crossing her arms in front of her.

Malfoy wobbled awkwardly and then seemed to steady himself, a cocky smile spreading across his face before his eyebrows suddenly shot up in alarm, his whole body tumbling gracelessly forward.  Hermione instinctively reached out and gripped him by the waist of his trousers.  His face flushed brighter than a pomegranate.

“Right, then,” Hermione pronounced, barely withholding her eyeroll.  “We’ll floo and then levitate.”

Malfoy tried to extricate himself from her hands, but she stubbornly clung on, dragging him toward the fireplace.

“Let go of me, Granger!”  He leaned his limp body away from her, as if repulsed.

A bubble of anger surged in Hermione’s chest.  She abruptly released her grip, and he tumbled to the floor.  Glaring down at him, she snapped, “Being a _mudblood’s_ not contagious, you know.”

His eyes went wide at her words, and she secretly revelled in the brief flash of abashment that crossed his features.  He surveyed her silently for a moment, his gaze lingering where a concealment charm obscured her scarred forearm.  Wordlessly, he extended a hand up to her from his position on the floor.

Hermione rolled her eyes and took a fortifying breath before gripping his hand and pulling him up.  “Let’s go.”

As she reached for a fistful of floo powder, she couldn’t help noticing the headmistress’s twinkling eye.

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Over there, by the window,” Malfoy stated imperiously, gesturing to the place where he wanted his trunks deposited.  He looked perfectly comfortable lying in a supine position atop the white duvet in the guest room, his head nestled among the pillows.

Hermione rolled her eyes for what felt like the fortieth time in the past ten minutes.  She unceremoniously dumped his items out of her bag and onto the desk, and then grabbed one of the potion vials.  Thrusting the pink liquid at him, she said, “Here.  Take this.”

Malfoy grimaced.  “Got anything to eat or drink with it?  That stuff’s worse than troll piss.”

She almost asked him the extent to which he was a connoisseur of troll piss, but her exhausted irritation won out over snarkiness.  “I’m not your servant, Malfoy, and we don’t employ house-elves, so you’d best get used to doing things yourself.”

He scowled and then started rolling as if to sit up.  He made it almost halfway upright before he plopped back onto the pillows again, his eyes sliding closed from the exertion.  His body was now loosely tucked in a fetal position with one of his trouser-legs riding up.  Hermione’s breath caught at the sight of the marks from the accident marring his body.  With his _reparo_ -ed and _scourgify_ -ed clothing, it was easy to forget that he’d suffered so much.  Immediately, memories of victims from the Battle of Hogwarts assailed Hermione’s consciousness, their limbs swollen, discoloured, and minced from falling debris.  Like Malfoy’s.

She shifted her gaze to his closed eyes and huffed a breath before heading downstairs to the kitchen.  Of course, she should have realised there’d be no food in the house.  She was _obviously_ too tired to think straight.  She dug through her bag until she found a package of Tim Tams, and then she filled a tumbler with water and climbed back up the stairs.

“Here, Malfoy, a snack for your Highness,” she grumbled as she pushed her way into his room.  “Don’t get used to -”

She stilled when she saw him sleeping soundly, his rib cage rising and falling with each breath.  Silently, she set the biscuits and water on the bedside table next to his potion.  She gave her head a slight, incredulous shake before magicking a blanket on top of him and darkening the room against the afternoon sun.  Then she did a triple-check of the house’s protective enchantments before dropping into her own bed and allowing her eyes to sink closed.

 

~~~~~~~

 

_She was **screaming** , falling from a tremendous height at top speed, the air freezing her fingers and preventing her from gripping her wand.  He was coming back - the beastly, blinded dragon charging straight for her, ready to snatch her in mid-air like a barn swallow hawking a fly.  She couldn’t get a grip, couldn’t slow her descent, couldn’t cast a single charm to prevent herself from either slamming into the earth or being eaten whole.  The dragon’s hot breath besieged her as the ground grew inexorably closer, death imminent from all sides.  Cold air, fiery breath, sharp teeth, solid ground.  Terror.  Pain.   **Nothingness**._

Hermione woke with a start, heart racing, gasping for air.  Godric, she hated that dream.  It was right up there with the one where enormous snakes lunged at her from her friends’ throats.

She took a few deep breaths, yanked her wand from under her pillow, and then trudged to the bathroom, eager to splash water on her sweaty face.  Just as she turned off the tap, a bellow rang out, followed by unmistakable grunts and clunks.  Her shoulders tensed as she tiptoed toward the guest room door, wand poised.  She hesitated in the corridor, wondering if she should eavesdrop, but hell - it was _her_ house.

She pressed her ear to the door and could make out Malfoy grumbling.  At the sound of something crashing to the floor, she carefully pushed the door open.

Hermione stood erect in the doorway, taking in the scene.  Malfoy was out of bed, standing shakily next to the desk, throwing his miniature trunks at the floor as if they were bang snaps that he wanted to burst open.  His hair was sticking out at odd angles, and his breathing was erratic. 

In as matter-of-fact tone as possible, Hermione murmured, “What are you doing, Malfoy?”

The crazed, glimmering eyes that he turned on her caused her to flinch involuntarily.  He started frantically patting himself down, looking for his wand, she realised.

Softly, she repeated, “Malfoy?”

It took him a moment to really register her, and when he did, his eyes shot wide.  Even in the darkened room, she could see him flush.  “Granger!”   It came out as a snarl, and Hermione tensed, her patience nearing its limit.  “Can’t you bloody well give a bloke some privacy?”

Hermione’s teeth clenched. “I’d like nothing more than to forget that you’re here, Malfoy, but you’re creating a racket.”  She stared pointedly at the objects littered all over the floor.

“I…”  He huffed his frustration, brushing a sleeve against his brow to wipe away sweat.  “Unshrink these trunks, Granger.  I need to take out something.”

She felt her eyebrows shoot up.  “Excuse me?  I already told you, Malfoy.  I’m not your servant.”

“Argh!”  He grunted in frustration.  He leaned down and snatched up a trunk, thrusting it against a wall.  It ricocheted off and skidded across the floor, landing near Hermione’s feet.  He turned his back to her, using his arms to brace himself against the desk.  “Will you unshrink my trunks?  Please.”  He ground out the words slowly, as though each one cost him more than the one before.

Hermione was highly tempted to turn on her heel and leave him to wallow in his own mess.  After all, his sentence was for no magic, right?  But the practical part of her won out, and she reluctantly raised her wand.  It would only cause her more difficulty if Malfoy couldn’t access any of his belongings.

She watched with interest as Malfoy pounced on each trunk as it was enlargened, tossing soiled laundry on the floor.  At the fourth trunk, a look of utter relief swept over his face as he slipped something into his palm and then slammed the lid shut.

“That’ll be all, Granger.”

She squawked in indignation, and Malfoy’s mouth twitched up slightly.  “You’re really too easy, Granger.”

She summoned a nasty glare, but he didn’t seem too fazed.  In fact, he seemed downright pleased, now.  He lifted a purple potion in front of him and promptly unstoppered it.

“Malfoy, is that...Dreamless Sleep?”  She could tell that it was.  “You can’t take that, Malfoy!  It won’t mix right with your other potions.  Otherwise Madam Pomfrey would have giv-”

He pointed to his pink potion, still sitting on the bedside table, and then downed the purple concoction in one go.  “This is more importan-”

His words dropped off as he fell immediately onto the mattress, sleep overtaking him.  Obviously, she wasn’t the only one with tortured sleep.  She didn’t know why she’d never thought of it before, but his dreams were probably worse than hers; he’d been _living_ in the Death Eater snake pit, after all.

Biting her lip, Hermione used her wand to centre him squarely on the bed and cover him back up before returning to the darkness awaiting her under her own covers.

 

~~~~~~~

 

It was dark outside when Draco awoke, a small box beside the bed displaying 3:12 in glowing red.  His body was quite sore, but his mind felt more rested than it had been in ages.  It only took a brief moment to recollect that he was not at the Manor nor at Hogwarts, but rather in a fluffy bed in the Grangers’ house.

Aided by the moonlight shining through the window, he glanced around the room and noticed his robes spilling out of his trunks onto the floor.  Next to him on the bedside table, the nasty pink potion was waiting for him beside a glass of water and what looked like chocolate biscuits.  He smirked automatically.  Granger.

Chugging the vile medicine down and chasing it with the snack, Draco stood up and stretched.  He felt much steadier, but he definitely wanted to get cleaned up.  His skin was sticky from sweat, and he was in dire need of clean clothing.  

He made his way toward the bathroom but stopped short at the sight of light shining under the door.  Granger must be in there.  He was just about to return to his room when the bathroom door opened, and the witch herself emerged with one pale blue towel twisted atop her head and another wrapped around her torso.  Her legs, arms, shoulders, and chest were lustrously bare.

She squeaked when she saw him, her hand clutching at the towel and her eyes burning into him accusingly.  “What are you doing, Malfoy?!” she spat.

“What do you think I’m doing?  I’m heading to the loo.”

“You’re ogling, more like.  Turn away!”

“For Salazar’s sake, Granger.  It’s not like I haven’t seen a witch before.  And you’re not even naked.”

“Turn around!” she hissed, her eyes blazing.

“Why, so you can hex me in the back?  I don’t think so.”

“You’ll get more than a hex if you don’t turn your pasty arse around this instant.”

Draco rolled his eyes but obliged, his hands on his hips.  He listened as she stomped down the corridor and slammed the door to her room, loudly adding a locking charm for good measure.

Shaking his head, he stalked into the bathroom, deciding that _he’d_ monopolize the space now.  He turned on the shower and shed his clothes, mildly disgusted by the bruises and scabs blighting his body.  He stepped inside and closed his eyes, allowing the hot water to pelt him.  He twisted the dial up until it was scalding, cleansing himself, punishing himself, but it was never enough - would never be enough.  He scrubbed blindly, viciously at his left arm, but he knew his exertions were useless.

Forehead resting against the shower wall, he slowly opened his eyes, and _EWW_.  He was brought back from his darkness by a disgusting substance hovering near the drain.  His nose scrunched up.  Was that Granger’s _hair?_

He considered prodding it with his foot, but he couldn’t make himself do it.  Helplessly, he stared at the clump, his mind flitting to the witch herself.

He’d had no idea what to expect going into this arrangement with Granger’s family, but so far it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could be.  Given their history, it was almost unbelievable that she’d brought him a snack, and helped with his luggage, and extended her hand to him in Slughorn’s office.

For all the years he’d known her, they’d never actually touched before - well, save for the time she socked him in the face.  This afternoon her hand hadn’t been repulsive, or aggressive, or even electric, but rather warm and firm.  Confident.  Unashamed.

And then, Merlin help him, there was the incident from a moment ago in the corridor.  Draco would _never_ admit to _anyone_ that Granger had occupied a starring role in some of his fantasies over the years.  Then there she’d stood before him, in the flesh, with nothing but a towel shielding her.  How easy it would be to tug that towel off, to reveal her peaks and her curves to him...

Draco felt his arousal escalating.  Looking around for soap, he found a bottle of orange-coloured body wash labelled “Mandarin Mist.”  He popped the lid and took a sniff, and Merlin it smelled just like her.  There’d only been a few times - at prefect meetings mostly - when he’d sat close enough to smell her, but that scent was inextricably linked with her in his mind.

He poured some of the cleanser into his palm, rubbing it into a lather and spreading it around, letting his hands soothe over his skin.  Fucking hell, he couldn’t hold back.  He took himself in hand and gave himself over to the images parading through his head: a warm hand, a salty smirk, a towel opening and dropping to the floor as amber eyes peered challengingly at him through feminine lashes…

 

~~~~~~~

 

Twenty minutes later, Draco was back in his room sporting a pair of black silk pyjama bottoms, picking through his dirty robes and trying to sort out what to wear.  How the hell was he supposed to clean his clothes without a wand or a house-elf?  He was brushing off the navy blazer that Granger had transfigured when a knock sounded on the door, and Granger traipsed in, wearing tight muggle trousers and a frumpy coffee-coloured top.

“Malfoy, I saw that your light was on, so I -”

She stopped as he lowered the blazer in his hands, her eyes riveting on his exposed chest.  A fleeting look of surprise crossed her features before her cheeks pinkened and she turned her gaze to the wall.  

Draco eyed her carefully, trying to determine if she was embarrassed, aroused, or appalled.  Admittedly, he didn’t look his best right now, given the ugly bruises and red marks from the incident at Hogwarts, as well as a few scars courtesy of the Dark Lord.

He cleared his throat.  “Get an eyeful, Granger?  At least _I_ am in the privacy of my own room and not frolicking about in a towel.”

She huffed and turned her head back to glare at him.  For someone so intelligent, she really was ridiculously easy to incite.

“I was _not_ frolicking.  And it’s apparent that we need to set up some boundaries…”

“Boundaries?”

“Yes.  We could make a schedule, so that we stay out of each other’s space…”

Why was he not surprised?  He half expected her to pull a piece of parchment out and start drafting something on the spot.

“Look, Granger.  I was going to the loo, which is unrealistic to plot onto a damn schedule.  But if you want to talk about living expectations, let’s discuss the nastiness you left on the shower floor.  Ever hear of _scourgify_?  Or at least a vanishing spell?”

She frowned.  “What are you talking about, Malfoy?”

He stepped closer to her and reached a hand out to her hair.  It was softer than he anticipated, and still slightly damp.  Gently gripping a couple of strands, he said, “ _This_ is what I’m talking about.”

She jerked her head away, scowling.  “Don’t touch me, Malfoy.  It’s no bloody secret that you’ve never been able to resist a quip at my hair, but that doesn’t-”

“I couldn’t care less about your hair, except when it’s glopped in the shower, clogging up the drain.  That’s just _gross_ , Granger.  If you don’t keep house-elves, then I’d think you’d-”

She held up a hand, her cheeks flaming pink.  “Stop.  Just stop.”  She let out an exasperated sigh, her eyes briefly closing, and Draco had to consciously keep his lips from twitching.

“Was there something else you wanted?  Besides working out a bathroom schedule at a quarter to four in the morning?”

Her eyes flicked open.  “I was going to tell you that I’m leaving to go grocery shopping.  Try not to break anything while I’m gone.”

Draco was not exactly certain what grocery shopping entailed, since he’d never done it, but the idea that a respectable witch would go out alone at this hour was absurd.

“Now?  It’s still dark out.”

She shot him a quelling look.  “Yes, now.  We’ve no food in the house, and my sleep is all off from jet-lag anyway.”

Draco’s confusion must have been apparent, because she rephrased.  “From international time-shifting.”

He nodded, and then quickly considered his next words.  “I’ll go, too.”

Her eyebrows shot up as she scrutinized him, her arms criss crossing over her chest.  She was silent for awhile as she carefully examined all possible implications of his comment.  Draco found that he enjoyed watching her eyes flicker as myriad thoughts zipped through her mind.  It was the flicker of _life_ , so different from the glazed look of servitude and death that were common in the Dark Lord’s circle.

Finally, her eyes honed in on his, ready.  “I’ll be perfectly fine on my own, Malfoy.  You’re not even dressed.  You should stay and get settled before my parents arrive home.”

An undeniable feeling of disappointment sank through him, but he nodded.  It was probably for the best.  Knowing her, he’d likely feel like strangling her within ten minutes anyway.

“Are you planning to wear that today?”  Granger pointed to the blazer that still hung limply in Draco’s hands.

“If I can figure out how to clean the damn thing.”

Granger’s lips twisted up in a half-smile.  “Here.”  She aimed her wand, and the jacket was wrinkle-free, smelling of sunshine.

“And what about the rest?  I don’t want to have to track you down every time I need to spell my clothes clean.”

Granger quirked an eyebrow.  “Nor do I.  Come with me.  Bring your clothes.”

She spent the next fifteen minutes teaching him how to use some strange clothes-washing contraption near the kitchen.  He was sorting his robes into the piles she’d specified when he heard her open the coat cupboard in the entry hall.  

She popped back to the kitchen area, shrugging into a light jacket.  “See you later, Malfoy.”

His eyes connected with hers, and he caught the amused twinkle lurking there at the image of him shoving his robes into the machine.  He grunted.

He felt her gaze shift to his still exposed torso.  Her tone softened slightly.  “Get some rest.”

And then she turned on her heel and left him.


	8. Golden and Grey

 

**Tuesday, June 23, 1998**

 

The early morning summer sun had fully crested the horizon by the time Hermione returned to her parents’ home in Sutton, groceries conveniently tucked in her jacket.  As she approached the front door, her skin suddenly tingled, and she exhaled in relief.  The wards were still working.

With a small, contented smile, she crossed the threshold.

“Damned muggle _rubbish_!”  She froze momentarily as Malfoy’s disdainful exclamation reached her, eyes growing wide at the sound of plastic and metal thunking repeatedly.  She hustled to the kitchen and gasped in shock.

“What’re you doing, Malfoy?!”

The floor in front of the washing machine was soaked, Malfoy’s clothes strewn about in an apparent attempt to absorb some of the water.  His still pyjama-clad leg was kicking the appliance, the dark silk now thoroughly wet and clinging to his shin.

He turned angry eyes on her, straightened his body to his full height, and crossed his arms over his chest.  “You’re the supposed _genius_.  What does it _look_ like I’m doing?” he ground out.

Hermione wasted no time in wielding her wand to dry up the water.  She gingerly stepped closer, inspecting the machine and its contents.  The washer door appeared broken from pressure.  “Malfoy, I _told_ you not to fill it so full!”

He huffed through his nose, lips pinched, and wordlessly stalked out of the room.

Hermione sighed.  Great.  Only a few hours until her parents would be back, and now this.  She could really do with a cuppa.  With a flick of her wand, the groceries were put away, and she bent to pull out her mother’s well-worn tea kettle.  As the water heated, she scanned Malfoy’s clothes lying about.  There were so many.  What did he do - change his clothes four times a day?  He must have washed a load or two while she was gone, and now the garments were all sopping on the floor.  Didn’t he even have the presence of mind to grab a towel?

She couldn’t blame him completely, though.  He wasn’t responsible for his upbringing any more than she’d been for hers.  Ron probably wouldn’t have a clue what to do, either.  She smirked at the thought.  

Two pureblooded wizards who would both be totally inept if left on their own in the muggle world...and yet, they were both so different from each other in almost every other way.  Ron would have whined and bellowed about the clothes washer, especially after her ungenerous ‘ _I told you so._ ’  They would have surely had a row.  But Malfoy just sucked it in and retreated.

It occurred to her that he was probably sitting up in his room in wet clothes.  Using her wand, she quickly dried and folded the laundry, stacking it in piles on the countertop.  As the last of his robes levitated from the floor, she caught sight of a book splayed open on the tile.  Her eyes bugged out at the volume obviously borrowed from her dad’s collection: Dickens’s _A Tale of Two Cities_.  She shook her head in disbelief.  Somehow Malfoy continued to surprise her.

The kettle whistled, and Hermione shifted to fill her cup.  She started to reach up to grab a cup for Malfoy, too, and then thought better of it.  She was already doing too much; she would _not_ become his servant.

Her stomach rumbled, and she set about making herself eggs, tomatoes, and fried bread.  She was just plating her meal when Malfoy sheepishly re-emerged, still bare-chested and with wet silk bottoms.  “What’s for breakfast?”

She arched an eyebrow.  “That depends on what you make.”

His mouth dropped open, but he quickly caught himself.  She could practically hear him swallow as he scanned the ingredients sprawled out on the counter.

“Here.”  She twisted her wand toward a shelf, and a dark paperback came flying towards them.  Malfoy scrunched his nose at the title.  “ _How to Boil an Egg_.  You’ve got to be joking, Granger.”

“Right.  Because I’m so well-known for my jokes,” she stated sarcastically.  “It’s a good book.  My mum got it for me when I turned 13.”

“This is servant stuff.”  Malfoy scowled at the book as if it were completely distasteful.  He opened his fist to deposit a fresh vial of pink potion onto the countertop, and then he prodded the book open with one finger.  A small ripple of guilt went through Hermione at the sight of his medicine, weakening her resolve somewhat.  Still....

She bit into her bread and swallowed.  “Suit yourself.  This might be the worst of times for you, Malfoy, or it could be the best.  It could be an age of foolishness, or an age of wisdom; a season of Darkness or a season of Light; a time of hope or despair.  It depends on how you embrace it.”

His eyes grew large as he recognized the reference to Dickens’s famous first line, even with the liberties she’d taken.  She smirked.  “See, you’re already opening yourself to muggle literature.  Why not cooking, too?”

“Malfoys don’t cook.”

“Malfoys adapt to survive, do they not?  Besides, cooking is not so different from potions class.”

His eyes flickered with interest at that.

“Here.  Slice a tomato.”  

He grumbled, sidled up next to her, picked up a knife and started slicing.  As he worked, Hermione took a bit of pity on him and wordlessly spelled his pyjama bottoms dry.

He glanced down and then shot her with a piercing gaze.  “For someone lauding the virtues of muggle culture, you sure do use your wand a lot, Granger.”

She flushed, duly admonished.  “Yes, well, I had to _earn_ the right to this wand - to quite literally _fight_ for it. I -”

His hand shot up, palm facing her.  “Stop, Granger.  I _get_ it, all right?”  She had the distinct feeling that he was steering them away from politics, and deep down she appreciated it.  “No one can deny that you’re magically capable.  I would expect someone as _brilliant_ [her eyes narrowed at his exaggerated emphasis on the word] as you’re purported to be to use magic when it is obviously superior to mundane muggle activities.”

She raised her brow at the backhanded compliment.  “And _I_ would expect someone as _intelligent_ [she echoed his tone] as _you’re_ purported to be to observe that muggle activities are perfectly effective and are presently your only viable option for survival.”  Clenching her jaw, she poured a tad more oil into the frying pan and then flipped the cookbook to the page titled 'Fried Egg.'

Malfoy scowled at the page for a moment, but he skimmed the contents and grabbed an egg from the carton on the counter.  “It’s not, you know.”

“Not what?  Not your only option?  Don’t think that I’m going to do everything for you.”

Malfoy waved the egg erratically in the air a moment, then grabbed Hermione’s now empty cup.

“Oi!” she squawked.

He cracked the egg too forcefully against the rim and grimaced as the raw egg whites dripped down his hand and along the outside of the cup.  He huffed and grabbed another egg.

“Disgusting,” he muttered.  Then more forcefully he declared, “That’s not what I meant.  My current situation is not about wisdom or foolishness, hope or despair, light or darkness.  Are you really naive enough to see everything in such binaries?”

Hermione sobered, watching the flex of his Dark Mark as he poured his egg from the cup into the frying pan.  She suddenly regretted her earlier flippancy.

“Of _course_ not, Malfoy.”  She released a heavy sigh and took a minute before quietly adding, “ _I’ve_ always known that everything is grey - being tugged between two worlds, never fully part of one or the other.  And now, after….well, after the…” She swallowed, but pushed herself on. “After the _war_ there is more grey than ever before.”  She frowned, her thoughts pulling her toward horrible memories.  “Everyone has both dark and light mixed within them.  Harry, Ron, me...we’ve all had to do terrible things.  I certainly don’t consider myself - or muggle life - to be superior or light or good or whatever.”

The intensity of the look Malfoy leveled at her curled her spine.  She deliberately straightened and arched her brow.  “But neither am I a fool.”

Malfoy’s silver eyes gleamed before he blinked and returned his attention to the pan.  “No. You’re not.”

Hermione puffed out a shocked breath, and then gestured for him to flip the egg and add the tomatoes to the pan.  As she grabbed him a plate, he asked, “Why did you agree?  To host me, I mean.”  His eyes were trained on the food cooking in front of him, his lips curved slightly down.

“I...I don’t honestly know, exactly.  There were a lot of reasons to do it, but also reasons not to.  It’s complicated.  Grey.”

Malfoy didn’t respond.  He scooped the egg onto the plate and at Hermione’s gesture dropped the bread into the pan.

“Not bad,” Hermione said, examining his work.  “You may survive after all.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco sat alone in the dining room, silently chewing his breakfast as the brunette witch cleaned the kitchen, obviously a bit anxious about her parents’ arrival.  He idly wondered if she actually _enjoyed_ scrubbing the pan in soapy water, or if she was merely too stubborn to use her magic because he was there.

Suddenly she let out a groan and stormed into the dining room, grumbling “I didn’t miss this.”

She yanked open the glass door.

Draco protected his plate as _hordes_ of owls swooped in, dropping message after message after message onto the table.

“These are all for you?” Draco asked incredulously.

“Hmph,” she huffed.

“Who are they from?”

“I don’t see how that’s your business, Malfoy.”  Turning to the owls, she snapped, “I haven't got any treats today.  Get on.”  The birds squawked but departed, and Granger immediately started reading the messages and sorting them into piles.

Curious, Draco managed a quick peek at the stack closest to him.  “Is this a _marriage proposal_?” he asked in disbelief.  A sneer darkened his face. “This is all _fan_ mail?”

The witch flushed.  “Not _all_ of it,” she spat out, reaching to the pile and pulling it away from him.  “If you _must_ know, most of it is correspondence from the Ministry.”

Draco scrunched his nose further as a knock sounded at the front door.

“Now what?!” Granger griped, storming toward the entry hall.

Draco glanced down at his chest, a mild wave of embarrassment arising from his state of undress.  Her parents weren’t home early, were they?  He promptly rose and strode toward the piles of laundry that Granger had folded for him.  She was definitely, _definitely_ annoying as hell, but despite her earlier assertion, there was no doubt that she was the embodiment of _good_ \- warm, compassionate, honorable, and helpful - even to someone as undeserving as he was.  It really shouldn’t be surprising that wizardkind idolized her.

As Draco reached out for a robe, he heard her honeyed voice echoing from the entry.  

“Ron!”

Her joyful tone caused Draco’s charitable thoughts to evaporate.  The witch was also unpolished and daft if she was actually drawn to the Weasel.

“Morning, beautiful.”

Draco could _hear_ them kiss, and he discarded the robe in his hand, spine rigid.

“What’s this?” Granger asked.

“I thought you might be hungry.  I brought you some of those almond croissants that you like.”

“That’s so sweet, Ron,” she gushed.  “Thank you.”

Draco heard another smack of lips.  He didn’t know why, but his stomach revolted and he found himself involuntarily walking to the dining room, collecting his plate, and bringing it to the sink, deliberately trying to make as much noise as possible.

When the lovebirds walked back to the kitchen, they found him at the sink, dunking the plate into the soapy water.  Draco smirked as their eyes bugged comically wide.  Granger, he knew, was shocked to see him touching _dishwater_ , while the Weasel was bothered for other reasons.

“What the bloody hell’s going on?” Weasel bellowed.

“Malfoy is apparently washing his plate,” Granger intoned astoundedly.

“Naked?!” Weasel furiously countered.

Granger’s cheeks pinkened slightly, but Draco knew that her need for accuracy would force her to speak on his behalf.  “He’s not _naked_ , Ron.  And he had to wash his laundry.”

Draco’s smirk deepened as he realised how predictable she was.  He waved his soapy hand airly.  “Listen to your witch, Weasel.  She would know.   _This_ isn’t naked.  Naked is what we were in the shower last night.”

The redhead roared and charged him.  Belatedly Draco recognized that his smart-arse remark probably went too far.  He and Weasel were fairly well-matched for height, but the ginger git definitely had the weight advantage, as well as a wand.

“Stop! Stop it!” Granger shouted.  “ _Petrificus Totalus_!”  

Both he and Weasel stiffened and fell to the floor.  

Granger growled above them.  “Is it so impossible to be _civil_ to each other - or at the very least to ignore each other?  Malfoy, go upstairs and get dressed.”

She released him with the counter-curse, and Draco shot the ginger a haughty smile before he grabbed his piles of laundry and started up the stairs.

Ten minutes later, though, his smile had fully vanished as he heard the duo clatter up the steps toward Granger’s room, giggling loudly.  The red boar made a reassuring comment - intentionally loud, Draco was certain - about locking and silencing spells before they hastily slammed her door....and undoubtedly got naked.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco tossed his book onto the coffee table in the sitting room, tugging at the crisp white collar of the muggle outfit Granger had transfigured for him.  Try as he might to distract himself with descriptions of London and Paris from two centuries ago, the book couldn’t hold his attention.  This was partially due to the muggle references that he didn’t understand, but also due to the vile memories stirring in his brain at the mention of torture, crime, death, and resurrection.  He had merely managed to replace disgusting thoughts of Granger-Weasley coitus with even more disgusting thoughts of Death Eater activities.

He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples.  He could sure as hell use some firewhiskey, but that would be zapping himself in the foot, ruining his plan to make a positive impression on Granger's parents.  He'd run through several scenarios in his head, and he was hopeful that with good behaviour and their approval, Kingsley might be swayed to grant him early parole.

Little Miss Perfect and the Weasel finally emerged from the bedroom, the latter bounding down the stairs looking like the cat that got the cream.  Upon seeing Draco, the plonker raised his eyebrows and pointed his index finger in an unmistakeable _I’m watching you_.  Draco suppressed the urge to smack the bastard’s smile off his face.

The Weasel grabbed Granger by the waist and gave her a tender kiss.  “See you later, love.”  He smoothed his finger along her cheek before slipping out the front door.

Granger locked the bolt and turned toward the sitting room.  She didn’t quite meet Draco’s eyes, but her stupid half-smile sent a nonsensical jolt of anger through him.

He barked, “Are we going to the airport, or what?”

Startled, she looked him fully in the face.  “ _I’m_ going to the airport. _You’re_  staying at Hogwarts.”  Her forehead wrinkled in confusion.  “Since when do you know about airports?”

Draco quirked his mouth up but said nothing.

She waited expectantly, and after a few more moments of deliberate silence she finally threw up her hands and marched toward the floo.  “Let’s go.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

McGonagall was waiting for them in the Headmistress’s office, and Draco entered with a bit of trepidation.  All things considered, the professor herself had always been decent to him, but it was creepy having Snape’s portrait glare down his nose and Dumbledore’s portrait twinkling his eyes from behind her.

The headmistress gestured for them to take a seat, and after a few minutes of small talk was ready to get to business.  “So what exactly is it you’d like from me, Hermione?”

“Well, Professor, first, I...uh,” she shot an uncomfortable look in Draco’s direction before squaring her shoulders.  “First I wanted to make _sure_ that the expectation is that Malfoy moves in straight-away.”  Draco’s eyes narrowed as she cleared her throat.  “It’s just that my parents have been gone for so long…”

McGonagall nodded sympathetically.  “I understand that you’d like time with them, my dear.  Unfortunately, I must admit that the Ministry is very intent on keeping things moving as quickly as possible.  From their perspective, Mr. Malfoy is already over a week into his sentence.”

Draco fidgeted, waiting for Granger to start protesting.  To his surprise, she merely sighed and nodded.  His mind flitted back to the defeated, exhausted-looking witch she’d been during his trial.

“In that case, I’m hoping that you can come to Sutton with Malfoy later today to help explain to my parents why he’s there.  I was thinking we could say he’s an exchange student?”

Draco held his breath, sliding his finger around the cuff of his dress shirt.

McGonagall’s brow darted up.  “I see.  What have you already told them?”

“Nothing - about Malfoy, that is.  They think they’re returning from a year-long sabbatical.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open.  Her parents didn’t know at all?  Bloody hell.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed a fraction.  “You mean that they don’t yet know about the war...about everything you’ve been through?”  

Granger shifted a bit in her seat, and if the subject weren’t so fucking impactful on his own situation, Draco would have thoroughly enjoyed watching her squirm.

Granger kept her gaze on the desk in front of them.  “Correct.”

The headmistress let loose a long exhale.  “Hermione, I know that you want to protect them, but they really deserve the truth, don’t they?”

Draco watched as fire suddenly ignited in Granger’s eyes.  Desperately, she flung out, “And what I am supposed to say? That I stole their memories so that I could run off to help defeat a demented, narcissistic madman?  That I’ve spent the past year on the run, practically starving, and that I can’t even count the number of times I narrowly escaped death?  Do I tell them how I watched my friends suffer and die, or how I was captured and tortured, or how I lost my soul by turning my own wand into a weapon?”

Draco’s heart started racing.  Salazar help him, he was going to vomit.

“Do I tell them that I’ve decided to bring them back now - without their consent - so that they can have a convict in their home?”

Draco closed his eyes and took deep breaths, willing the bile to stay down.  A _convict_.  The word stung so much worse when it came from Granger’s mouth.

At the movement beside him, Draco opened his eyes to find Granger wiping tears from her cheeks.  McGonagall’s eyes were brimming, too.

The elderly headmistress took a deep breath.  “I don’t know that I’d use that word, specifically.”  She glanced quietly at Draco before returning her gaze to Granger.  “But yes.  That’s what you tell them.”

“And what if they don’t agree with the Wizengamot?  We had a deal.”

Draco’s mind snapped to attention.  Deal?

“Then they don’t agree.  Your parents have the right to know the truth and to decline participation.”

“But what about the Wizengamot?”

“Don’t worry about that part.  They’ll take each step as it comes.  But don’t ask me to lie for you, Hermione.”  She sighed.  “The truth may be ugly, but only by facing it can we be free.”

Granger stood abruptly and jerked her head in a small nod.  Her breathing was audible and her hands were trembling.  Draco almost lifted his hand to help still hers, but he caught himself.  She would surely recoil from the _convict_ who had been witness to her _torture_.  She might proclaim that everyone possessed shades of grey, but they both knew that his were definitely darker than hers.

As Granger exited and the door clicked closed, Snape’s portrait declared, “You may as well be prepared.  She won’t go through with the truth.”

McGonagall snapped, “Of course she will.  She’s a Gryffindor through and through.”

“We... Shall... See...” Snape slowly droned.

Draco shot a glance at Dumbledore’s portrait and found the bearded wizard staring straight at him, eyes glistening, with a finger curved across his mouth in contemplation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to Boil an Egg: and 184 Other Simple Recipes for One, by Jan Arkless, 1986, Right Way Publishing 
> 
> \-----
> 
> A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens (originally published in 1859 by Chapman & Hall) - opening sentence of duality:
> 
> "It was the best of times,  
> it was the worst of times,  
> it was the age of wisdom,  
> it was the age of foolishness,  
> it was the epoch of belief,  
> it was the epoch of incredulity,  
> it was the season of Light,  
> it was the season of Darkness,  
> it was the spring of hope,  
> it was the winter of despair,
> 
> We had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way..."


	9. Disclosure and Declarations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Since Hermione's parents are both Drs, I found it necessary to vacillate between the Mr/Mrs and Dr titles in order to show who was speaking or being spoken to. I hope that this didn't inadvertently lead to more confusion. : )
> 
> (2) I realise that some might consider McGonagall's behind-doors conversation with the Grangers a bit of a cop-out. To be honest, in my head I know exactly how their discussion goes, but in the end I chose not to include it because it only lengthened the chapter without providing any new information for readers who are familiar with canon. The bottom-line was that McGonagall brought the Grangers on board, and I felt it more important to focus on Hermione and Draco.
> 
> (3) For those of you curious about the length of this fic, I'm anticipating that it will be about 35 chapters if I don't deviate too far from my outline. The past several chapters have taken place within a short time frame, but there will be time jumps as the work continues.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

 

**Tuesday, June 23, 1998**

 

“So why not just tell your parents that the bloke McGonagall’s bringing is a loathsome cretin?” Ginny asked, the curl of her nose leaving no doubt of the fierce conviction behind her words.  “Then they’ll say ‘no,’ the Ferret will be kicked off to someone else, and you’ll get to move on with your life without having to suffer his presence for a single minute more.”

“She has a point,” Harry said, wandering into the sitting room at 12 Grimmauld Place, still clad in his pyjamas with his dark hair sticking up.  Hermione almost smiled at the familiar image.  The world around them could change for better or for worse, but Harry Potter would still wake up with bedhead each morning.

“Sorry, Harry.  I didn’t mean to wake you.  Ginny was telling me that you were out late on a mission last night.”

He nodded and bent to give Hermione a quick hug, then he plopped onto the opposite sofa beside Ginny and pulled the redhead snuggly against his side.

“No worries, Hermione.”  He yawned.  “You’re always welcome here - you know that.”

She did, which is precisely why she stopped by after being scolded by McGonagall.  She had very little time until she had to collect her parents from the airport, and she was still trying to work out what to say - or not say - to them.  She had taken a gamble that Harry might be home and was only partially surprised to see Ginny there at nine in the morning.

“How was Australia?”  Harry yawned again, his eyes slipping closed, and Hermione suddenly regretted imposing her own problems on him.

“Rough night?” she asked.

“Hmmm,” Harry acknowledged sleepily.  “Higgins and I finally got Rookwood.”

Hermione sat up straighter on the sofa, uncurling her legs from underneath her as Harry continued.  “Rowle was with him, but that slimebag managed to slither away and disapparate before we could incapacitate him.”

“Is Rookwood dead?”

“No.  He’ll be sent to trial within the next two weeks.”

“Wonderful,” Hermione huffed dully.  At Harry’s raised eyebrows, she immediately regretted her sarcasm.

“Sorry, Harry.  I’m really glad that you caught him.  Truly.  And he _technically_ deserves the right to a hearing -”

Ginny snorted, and Hermione glanced her way before continuing.  “But I don’t know how many more of these trials I can handle.  Do you think they’ll call us to testify again?”

Harry sighed, his head bobbing slightly.  “Yeah, I do.  Some of the aurors have been going a bit renegade, and Kingsley’s trying to restore order.  He wants to prove that the new ministry is following due process.  He’s told our department again and again that he won’t do group charges, and we can’t be reliant solely on past convictions to put people away.”

“Ughh,” Hermione groaned.  “We’ve already been through trials for Dolohov, Avery, Jugson, Mulciber, Travers..." she articulated, ticking them off on her fingers, "...both Lestranges, and all three Malfoys."

“Don’t forget Greyback,” Ginny said flatly, a shudder rippling over her.

“Yes.  And of course you and Neville also testified against the Carrows.”  She let loose a heavy breath, her head falling back against the sofa.  “I hope this will all be over one day soon.”

Harry sighed.  “At least Rookwood’s trial will be shorter and more straight-forward than Malfoy’s.  Speaking of, how’s it going with your new charge?”

Hermione shifted a bit, and a distressed look suddenly broke across Harry’s features.  “He’s treating you okay, isn’t he?  I mean, I really thought that he’d turned around, but if he’s harming you at all, Hermione, don’t hesitate to shove him back to the Wizengamot.  Ginny’s right.  You and your family shouldn’t have to suffer.”

Hermione stared up at the ceiling, rolling her head slightly from side to side.  “He and Ron had a bit of an altercation -”

“No surprise there,” Ginny interjected.

“-but other than that, so far it’s been…”  Hermione closed her eyes as she reflected on the unexpected interactions she’d had with Malfoy.  “It’s been...fine,” she finished lamely.  “Well, apart from him breaking the washing machine…”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, and Ginny’s mouth popped open.

“Malfoy did laundry?  In a muggle machine?” Ginny choked out.

Hermione sat back up and nodded as Harry’s bewildered expression cleared.  “Then what’s going on, Hermione?  You know I love to have you over, but you don’t tend to spontaneously stop by.”

“She’s on her way to get her parents at the airport,” Ginny supplied.  “And she thinks McGonagall will spill the beans about the war and about how Hermione obliviated them.”

“Well, they’re bound to find out eventually, aren’t they?” Harry asked carefully.

“They will if McGonagall has anything to say about it,” Ginny said knowingly.

Hermione frowned, watching the conversation seesaw between them.  “Look,” she broke in.  “It’s not that I want to lie to my parents, but I need the explanation to be on my own terms.  And I don’t see how I’m supposed to unload heavy information about this past year and simultaneously get them to agree to take on Malfoy.  It’s illogical.  They’d never agree.”

“Exactly!” Ginny pronounced.  “Then they don’t agree, and you can get Malfoy out of your hair.”

Hermione looked toward the window and bit her lip.  It felt... _wrong_...to just kick him out.

Harry’s eyes pierced into her.  “Hermione, _do_ you want Malfoy out of your hair?” he asked slowly.

She shot her gaze sharply to her best friend.  “Of course I’d rather not live with Malfoy.  But I made a deal, Harry.  The ministry helped me get my parents back, and now I owe them.”

“You’re a war heroine, Hermione.  They’d understand, I’m sure.”

Hermione leveled him a sardonic look.  “I doubt it.  They asked me _because_ I’m a war heroine.”

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes again, Kingsley’s words bouncing through her mind.

_“There really isn’t anyone better suited, Hermione....we need someone with your level of skill…”_

McGonagall’s words quickly followed.

_“We know that you can do it...we trust you completely to fulfill the expectations without abusing the power granted to you.”_

Where would Malfoy go if her family kicked him out?  Would she be putting another family at risk?  Would they take advantage of Malfoy’s squib state to abuse him?  Would anyone else really comprehend the horrors that he’d been through?  She was one of the very few people who’d actually faced Voldemort firsthand, one of the very few who’d entered Death Eater headquarters and had come out alive.  And as far as she knew, she was the only one who’d seen the unmitigated terror in Malfoy’s grey eyes as she’d lain beneath a chandelier, squirming frantically in a vain attempt to evade a cursed blade.

Her stomach churned.  If it weren’t for the memory of those eyes in that moment, she’d swear she wouldn’t care what happened to him.

“Hermione?” Harry said.  She could feel him scrutinizing her, his brow furrowed.  “I’ll go with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry.  You should rest.  And eat.”  She flashed a fleeting smile.  “And comb your hair.”

“I’ll go with her,” Ginny declared, and Harry’s eyes sparkled with warmth as he pulled his fingers through his dark locks.

“You’ve still got the Trace on you, Gin.”  Harry smirked at her.

“So?  What do you think I’m going to do - hex Hermione’s parents?”

“No, but I’m assuming you’d see Malfoy, too, and I wouldn’t bet against you slipping a _Densaugeo_ or a Bat Bogey hex at him, if given the opportunity.”

Ginny huffed delicately, tossing her hair over her shoulder.  “He’d have it coming, I’m sure.  And anyway, who cares about the Trace now?  The ministry is too busy to monitor such things.”

Harry’s eyes twinkled at her, and he leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek.  “Normally I’d agree with you, Gin, but Hermione is housing a former Death Eater who has been forbidden to use magic.  You can be sure that they’re monitoring the magical activity there very carefully.”

Hermione groaned inwardly.  How had she been so stupid to not think of that?  Unless she wanted to have Dickelson in her business all the time, she’d have to seriously cut back on her use of magic at home.  

She took a deep breath and collected her bag from the cushion beside her.  “I’ll be fine on my own, but thank you both.”  She gave them each a hug and strode resignedly from the room.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Hermione barely heard the knock through the sobs wracking her body.  Her mother was seated in an armchair, staring at nothing and murmuring _“I just don’t believe it. How could you?”_ over and over in a loop.  Her dad glowered at her in furious disbelief, parchment clutched in his hand, pacing back and forth within the tight confines of the sitting room.  She’d never seen him so angry.

And she hadn’t even told them the half of it.

Her insides ached worse than she would have thought possible.  She had known that the dreaded conversation was unlikely to go well, but she hadn’t wanted to believe that it would hurt so badly.

Hermione’s stomach had roiled with anticipation during her wait at Heathrow and throughout the entire taxi ride home.  She and her parents had spoken of the flight, the weather, the neighbours - any innocuous topic that Hermione could think of.  The joy she’d felt at seeing them and noting the improvement of their memories had been snuffed out by the knowledge of what was to come.

They’d been about ten minutes from home when Hermione had finally summoned her inner Gryffindor, shooting a nonverbal _muffliato_ at the taxi driver and launching into an explanation of the guests that were coming to visit.  Her parents had been understandably confused, and guilt had seared through Hermione as she’d navigated her responses of carefully worded - and admittedly incomplete - truths.

By the time they’d crossed the threshold of the house, her parents had actually - amazingly - seemed open to having a pureblood classmate stay with them in order to learn about muggle life.

But then her dad had seen the mountain of owl deliveries on the dining room table, forgotten in the wake of Ron’s visit that morning.  A few words had caught his eye, _war_ and _heroine_ among them.  Hermione had frozen in distress as her dad’s questions had penetrated her in slow motion.

And so she’d finally given in and let it out: Voldemort and the Death Eaters, the war, the obliviation.  She tried to keep it impersonal and free of specifics, but even still, as basic comprehension swept over her parents’ faces, the tension shot up exponentially.

“I...I don’t know how to trust you now, Hermione,” her dad choked.  “How do we know you won’t use magic on us while we sleep?  While our backs are turned?”

“Have you used magic on us before?” her mum suddenly asked, eyes wide, fingertips biting into the arms of the chair.

“No!” Hermione declared fervently.  “This was an extreme situation.  I had to -”

“How could you not _tell_ us?!”  Her dad’s voice - usually so patient and reserved - practically thundered.  “We’re your parents.  We’re supposed to protect you! _I’m_ supposed to protect _YOU_!”

“It…” Hermione stammered.  “You...you couldn’t have.  Not in this situation.”

“If I had known how horrid the magical community was, I’d never…”  Her dad turned and brushed a tear away with his sleeve.

Hermione wanted to shrivel up and die.

The knock at the door sounded again.  

They ignored it.

“I had to do it,” Hermione repeated pleadingly.  “I had to keep you safe!  I love you!  You wouldn’t have left me alone to do what I needed to do,” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

There was no response to that.  Hermione’s body shook as she waited in vain for them to say that they understood, that they forgave her, that they loved her, too, but there was nothing but the sound of shocked silence.

Hermione suddenly heard the crack of apparition, and she instinctively jumped to her feet, clutching her wand in a death grip.  A quick glance revealed Harry outside the glass door of the dining room.  He gave a slight wave, and after realising that everyone remained rooted in place, he cast an _alohomora_ and let himself in.

Hermione’s dad shook his head incredulously, running both his hands through his hair.

Hermione wanted to run into Harry’s arms, but instead she announced in a watery voice, “This is not a good time, Harry.”

“I know.  I could hear you outside.  You weren’t answering the front door, so I thought I’d come round back.”

“You thought you’d just let yourself in.  With magic,” Hermione’s dad practically spat.

If Hermione weren’t so emotionally spent, she’d have been mortified.

“Hullo, Mr Granger.  Mrs Granger,” Harry greeted them, and then he was beside Hermione in four strides, wrapping his arms firmly around her.  She curled into him, trying to get her breathing under control.

“And you knew of this _magical war_ , Harry?  It sounds like you were involved, too?”

“Yes,” Harry stated implacably.  “And I had to relocate my family, as well.”

“And did you brainwash them, also?” Alan Granger challenged, eyes slightly narrowed.

Harry cleared his throat.  “We all did what we had to do, Mr Granger.  And none of us took pleasure in any of it.  Hermione missed you both a great deal, and she’s really been looking forward to having you back again.”

There was a pregnant pause before Hermione’s dad slapped the piece of parchment in his hand back onto the dining room table.  “There will be no more magic in this house.  Is that clear, Hermione?  If you want to see us, you will check your wand at the door.”

Hermione heard her mum gasp, but her father plowed on.  “Your mother and I should not have to live in fear of magical manipulation within our own home.”  He turned to the side and wiped at his face again.  “Promise us.”

Hermione lifted her head from Harry’s shoulder.  No magic?  Her wand was her lifeline.  Surely she could give up the magical conveniences - she'd already decided to cut back anyway - but what about the protective spells?  She couldn’t even sleep without her wand within reach.

Her parents were watching her carefully with bated breath.

“I...I promise.  No magic,” Hermione complied.

“Hermione…” Harry murmured lowly in her ear.

“I know, Harry,” she whispered back.  “Just at home.  The enchantments are in place.  We’ll be fine.  I can do this.”  She tried to infuse confidence into her tone, but she wasn’t sure whether it was Harry or herself that she was trying to convince.  “I have to.”

The sudden tightness in his shoulders told her that he was not pleased.

Carol Granger’s halting voice abruptly rang out.  “Has this blood purity balderdash been an issue for a while?”

“Uh, why do you ask, Mum?”

“A memory just struck me - I'm not sure if it’s accurate, mind you - of being in that book store...What’s it called?”  She pressed her fingers to her temples.

“Flourish and Blotts?”

“Yes, and there was an atrocious man with long blond hair harassing Ronald’s family, something about being a blood traitor...”

Hermione swallowed and took a step back from Harry, who was looking at her intently.

“...But that was years ago, wasn’t it?  Was that man one of these Death Eater people?”

Harry cleared his throat again.  “Yes, Mrs Granger.  He’s currently incarcerated.”

Carol Granger’s eyes went wide, and she jerked slightly as the doorbell rang.

“Excellent,” Alan Granger grumbled scornfully, tearing himself from the conversation.  “Let me just get the door before they decide to let themselves in anyway.”

“That blond wizard was so full of hate,” Hermione’s mum went on.

“We should have known then that the magical world was a terrible place for our girl,” Alan Granger added from the entry hall.  “I can picture that hair and that sneer so clearly.  And Hermione used to complain about the son.”

“I remember.  ‘Mal’-something, wasn’t it?” Carol Granger questioned.

Hermione bit her lips as her dad yanked the front door open.

Professor McGonagall was on the front step with a tall, platinum-blond adolescent beside her.  “Dr Granger,” she said cheerily.  “So nice to see you.  May I introduce you to a student of mine?  This is Draco Malfoy.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco brushed his sweaty palms awkwardly against the denim trousers that Granger had transfigured for him, trying to keep his spine straight and his facial features composed.  The first thing that he noticed was that Dr. Granger’s eyes were the exact same colour as his daughter’s, and they currently flared with the same indignant fire that he’d seen in his school rival’s so many times before.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Dr Granger hollered, and Draco promptly slipped a stoic mask into place.

Professor McGonagall tensed beside him.  “I beg your pardon, Dr. Granger  Did Hermione tell you that we’d be stopping by?”

“She told us a number of horrible revelations.  This house is now officially a no-magic zone, and -”

Draco flinched as a blast of light hit the man in the back.  Dr Granger’s face took on a glazed look a mere moment before a second spell struck him again, causing his prospective host father to burst into hysterical laughter.

“Harry!” Hermione shrieked.

“Potter?!” McGonagall reprimanded sharply.  She grabbed Dr Granger by the arm, and they pushed into the house, shuffling into the sitting room.  Potter was standing with wand poised beside a brunette woman who was shaking with uncontrollable mirth.

“Harry, what have you done?  We just agreed to no magic!  I promised!” the bushy-haired Gryffindor screeched.

“ _You_ promised. _I_ didn’t.”

McGonagall was surveying the parents as Potter continued.  “He was talking about magic with the door open!  Would you rather Dickelson’s crew show up to start obliviating people?  Besides, it was just a _Confundus_ and a Cheering Charm.”

“You always overdo the Cheering Charm, Harry!  Look at them!  They’re a mess!”

Draco glanced back and forth between the two muggles who were practically rolling on the floor with laughter.

“I'm just trying to help, Hermione!  At least your parents will be more agreeable now.”

“Yes, but not of their own volition!”

McGonagall peered down her nose disapprovingly at Potter.  “Hermione, put on some tea please, would you?  Mr Malfoy, take a seat.  Mr Potter, I’ll take it from here.”

Granger glanced worriedly at her parents and started making her way toward the kitchen.  Potter followed, and Draco saw them whisper to each other and then embrace before Wonder Boy slipped into the back yard and disapparated.

Draco dropped himself onto the piano bench and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.  He wasn’t sure if it was the muggle clothing or the stress that was responsible for making him so hot and sweaty, but either way, he was thoroughly uncomfortable.  He crossed his arms over his chest and watched in amazement as McGonagall whipped out a wand, casting a nonverbal charm.  The muggles instantly relaxed.

When he caught her eye, the headmistress intoned matter-of-factly, “I’m simply countering Potter’s overzealous spellwork.  Besides, I haven’t yet made any promises, either.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Seven minutes later, the Grangers were sitting on the sofa, somewhat nonplussed as their daughter re-emerged from the kitchen with a tray of tea and biscuits.  Draco’s skin tingled as Mrs Granger’s gaze raked curiously over him.  “Were you also involved in the war?” she suddenly asked, and Mr Granger’s eyes narrowed.

A shattering crash reverberated through the room as tea items scattered all over the floor, the tray lying askew at Hermione’s feet.  Draco wondered if he looked as flushed as she did.

Apparently McGonagall hadn’t messed with her parents’ memories.

Draco shifted uneasily.  He opened his mouth to respond, but an enormous lump was clogging his throat.

“I expect that you have a great many questions about what’s been happening in our magical community,” the headmistress stated.  “Here, Hermione, dear. Perhaps we don’t need tea just now.”  With a wave of her wand, the tea mess vanished.  “Ah, and I can see from your expression, Dr Granger, that Hermione has told you much already.”  McGonagall smiled with approval.  “I’d be -”

“We’re done with magic in this house,” Mr Granger interrupted firmly.  “The magical world is -”

“You’re quite right, Dr Granger,” McGonagall cut in.  “Hermione, please take my wand with you as you give _Draco_ ” - he noted the emphasis on his given name “- a tour of the backyard.”

Hermione raised her eyebrow quizzically, hesitantly grasping the elegant fir wand that was outstretched in her direction.

“What do you mean by this, Professor,” Dr Granger huffed.

The headmistress smoothly arched an eyebrow.  “I’m here to answer your questions, Dr Granger, and I don’t want you to worry about any magical influence.  You’ve requested no more magic, and I shall oblige.”

The elderly witch caught Draco’s eye and tipped her head toward the back door in an obvious dismissal.

Hermione blinked.  She took a deep breath and then muttered, “Let’s go outside, _Draco_.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

“These are my mother’s dead rosebushes,” Hermione uttered dispassionately, toeing the base of the stems, “and that weedy mess is what remains of our garden from last summer.”

Draco wondered what his amber-eyed companion was thinking about.  Neither of them gave a fuck about the garden, he knew.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and sauntered to a stone bench in the sunshine, his nose involuntarily curling at the specks of dirt and moss coating the surface.  Instead of sitting, he leaned his shoulder against the wooden fence, eyeing the brunette warily.  “You’re just going to leave your parents alone with McGonagall?”

Hermione swiveled her head toward him.  “Yes,” she stated firmly.

He pursed his lips.

“What?” she snapped.

He shrugged.  “You seemed rather concerned about her interference earlier this morning.”

“I’m the one who _asked_ her to interfere, Malfoy.”

“We’re back to 'Malfoy,' huh?  I thought that you’d upgraded me to 'Draco,'  _Hermione_.”  He was surprised to hear the angry bite in his words.  Why should he care what she called him?

She reacted to his tone with a stare as penetrating and petrifying as a Basilisk's.

He met her gaze and raised an eyebrow.  They assessed each other for what felt like ages.  He wasn’t sure who weakened first, but eventually her irritation softened to inquisitiveness.  Her eyes flashed with the familiar light of whizzing thoughts, and Draco felt himself being pulled in to their depths.

More sedately he declared, “You can call me Draco, you know.  Given that we might be living together and all.”

She looked at him curiously for another moment and then gave a nod.  “We will be - living together, I mean.”

Considering the reception he’d received on the front step, Draco was not so certain.  The dark cloud of Azkaban settled over his thoughts.

Hermione shifted to sit on the bench, folding her hands primly in her lap and tilting her head toward the sun.  “The worst is over."  She sucked in a deep breath.  "McGonagall knows how to reassure my parents.”  The petite swot was squeezing her hands so tightly that her fingers were turning white.  “She has a talent for talking with muggles.  Otherwise, there’d be far fewer muggleborns at Hogwarts.”  A sad smile twisted across her face.

Draco sighed and averted his eyes.  “Did you really agree to give up magic?”

He felt her gaze bore into him again.  “Only at home,” she said carefully, voice hard.  “I’m sure that Voldemort’s sympathizers would love for me to relinquish my wand, but I’ve been through way too much to bow down to pureblood supremacy now.”  

He glanced over to find her staring at him, those amber eyes penetrating into him.  Draco swallowed.  

“Plus, my magic is an integral part of me, just as it is for you.  My parents know this.  They’ll eventually remember and understand.  As a kid it emerged without even trying.”

Draco had never thought of young muggleborns performing accidental magic.  It made sense; they had to have qualified for Hogwarts somehow.  He was suddenly curious to know about young Hermione.  He pushed off the fence and moved to the bench where she sat, hesitating only slightly before dropping onto the dirty surface next to her.

She seemed surprised by his nearness, but she said nothing.

“What would they remember?”

She shrugged.  “Flying books and wiggling dolls.  Knick knacks exploding when I was frustrated or worried.  Lights flashing when I was scared or excited.  To be honest, I think that they were relieved when they found out what I was.  What I am.”

It must have been hard, Draco realised, experiencing all of that without understanding what was happening.  Every pureblood knew that those were classic signs of magical ability, and they were as celebrated as first words or first steps.

“When I was three, one of my tantrums caused a pitcher of lemonade to fly into my father’s face,” Draco said, noting the small smile that snuck across Hermione’s features.  He felt his own mouth curve up in return.

“I once caused a tennis ball to reverse direction,” she said somewhat proudly.

“What’s a tennis ball?”

“It's...I'll show you sometime."  She bit her bottom lip.  "I also apparently set my dad’s newspaper on fire once.”

Whoa.  Accidental fire was rare.  If anyone could do it though, he wasn’t surprised it was the gifted Gryffindor next to him.  "What happened?"

"I don't really remember it that well.  I was four and wanted to read the newspaper like my parents.  I was concentrating so hard on the letters that the paper started smoking."  Her smile faded.  “My parents were really getting scared.  Thank goodness that Professor McGonagall came.  Like I said, she knows what she’s doing.”

As if mentioning the witch had conjured her, the glass door suddenly opened, and the headmistress stepped out onto the grass followed closely by Hermione’s parents.  

“I’m taking my leave now.  Thank you for safeguarding my wand, Hermione.”  They stood up, and Draco watched enviously as the powerful wooden device transfered hands.

“Is everything -” Hermione started.

“It’s all worked out.”  The headmistress nodded, and then turned to Draco.  “We shall see you back at Hogwarts on Thursday, Mr Malfoy.  Until then, enjoy your time with your new host family.”

Draco glanced at the couple standing near the door, a glimmer of empathy shining in their eyes.  As McGonagall departed, they moved straight to Hermione and wrapped her in a hug.  Draco tugged at the hem of his muggle waistcoat.  The lump in his throat was back.


	10. Neighbours and Night Terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As the chapter title suggests, this chapter includes symptoms of night terrors as a result of PTSD. The scene presented here is not particulary dark or graphic, but if this is a potential trigger for you, please be advised before reading.

**Tuesday, June 23, 1998**

 

Hermione lay atop her bed, staring at the ceiling.  Fourteen seconds.  She’d counted three times.  Fourteen seconds from her bedroom down the stairs to where her wand was discreetly tucked in the cabinet beside the fireplace.  A few seconds more if she had to rouse herself from sleep.

It was too many.  A hundred horrible things could happen in fourteen seconds, and she trembled as her mind played them all out in horrid detail, fear overriding the prickly inner voice stammering that her wards and enchantments had never failed her.  Yet.

But they could.

She turned onto her side and stared out the window at the twilight, wondering where Voldemort’s remaining supporters were right now.  She hoped that Harry would find them just as fervently as she hoped that he’d never have to face them again.

Shuddering, she rolled onto her other side and peered through the darkness at the bedroom door, closed to offset the absence of silencing charms.  Fourteen seconds, but the closed door would slow her down.

She sighed and grabbed her blanket and pillow before slipping silently down the stairs to the sofa.  Only three seconds to her wand from here.  Three quick seconds.  She wrapped the blanket snuggly around herself and let her eyes drift closed.  She’d never fall asleep, but at least she’d have a better chance of accomplishing whatever might be necessary in three quick seconds.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco sat up in bed, flipping through the biology textbook that Hermione’s father had lent him.  During dinner at a tiny neighbourhood ‘restaurant’ - and Draco was using that term _very_ loosely, since to his shock he was expected to eat with two _wooden sticks_ while sitting on a _plastic chair_ \- Hermione had mentioned that he’d been reading that _Two Cities_ book.  He’d shrugged and admitted that it wasn’t actually to his liking, and Mrs Granger had lit up talking about other books in their collection.  As soon as they’d walked back to the Grangers’ home, she’d set about showing him their ‘library’ - another loose term.  When she’d discovered his current aversion to dark tomes, she became especially keen for him to try something called _Pride and Prejudice_.  The title alone brought to mind the conflicts between his bushy-haired host sister and himself, and he was suddenly quite sure that he wasn’t prepared to stomach it.

“It’s a great English classic,” Mrs Granger had declared. “And rather lighthearted.”

Hermione had affected a completely neutral expression while Mr Granger had shaken his head behind his wife, silently mouthing, “Girlish romance.”  Without glancing back, Mrs Granger had lightly smacked her husband in the chest.

A tiny amount of tension had drained from Draco then.  Throughout the afternoon and during their ‘chopstick’ meal, the Grangers had continued to warm to his presence.  They’d asked about school and siblings and sports, and had fallen easily into a shared conversation about holidays in France.  Draco wasn’t certain what McGonagall had said to them, but he no longer wanted to question it.

In the end, Draco had settled on a nonfiction book, and thus far he’d been able to lose himself in the unfamiliar teachings of muggle biology.  He was a couple of hours in, reading about cell division, when an earsplitting scream shot him to his feet.

“ _No! No! Please!”_

Granger?  Was she in trouble?  He reached his door moments before her father came charging down from the floor above.

Mr Granger burst into his daughter’s room and then rounded on Draco in the shadowy corridor.  “Where’s Hermione?!” he demanded, his amber eyes full of accusation.  Draco’s heart thundered in his chest as the muggle man crowded into his body space.  “Where’s my daughter?!”

Mrs Granger entered the corridor from the stairwell.  “Hermione?”

Another scream cut through the night, making Draco’s blood curdle.  “ _No! Stop! Leave!”_

They turned in tandem, and Hermione’s parents bolted toward the ground floor.

Draco seriously considered staying in his room.  Avoidance had helped him survive the Dark Lord, after all.  But if there was an intruder in this house, it was most likely because of _him_ , and he’d never be able to forgive himself for continuing to idly hide while harm fell upon the innocents around him.  He’d been a voiceless bystander far too many times already.

Unsure of what to use in the absence of a wand, he grabbed the porcelain vase from atop his chest of drawers and scurried nimbly down the stairs.

Hermione was alone, bolt upright on the sofa in the sitting room, legs thrashing, drenched in sweat.  A pale blue blanket dangled from one foot.  Her eyes were open, but she was completely unresponsive to her parents’ attempts to rouse her.  A tortured whimper erupted from her lips.

So this is what it looked like.  Draco had not witnessed _pavor nocturnus_ before, but Blaise had told him that Draco had had similar episodes in the dormitory since this past Christmas.  After that, Draco had relied on sleep potions and silencing charms to keep his nosy Hogwarts housemates at bay.

“Hermione, darling, wake up,” Mrs Granger was saying, stroking her daughter’s hair.

Hermione kicked her and arched her back.  “Wand!” she mumbled in a panicky tone.  “No! No!”  Her chest heaved, pure terror exhibited on every line of her face.

“Hermione,” her mother enunciated firmly.

Mr Granger’s brows were furrowed in concern.  “Hey, Chickpea.  Wake up!  You’re safe.”

Tears started leaking from the corners of Hermione’s eyes.  She plopped back down onto her pillow, driving her forehead into the material as gasping sobs shook her whole frame.

Dark images started running through Draco’s mind, and he fought with everything in him to block them out.  Eyes closed, he abstractedly rotated the vase in his hands and stated quietly, “She has to wake up on her own.  It’s not much consolation, but she probably won’t even remember this in the morning.”

He could feel the Grangers’ eyes home in on him.

“Does this happen to you, too?” Mrs Granger asked.

Draco opened his eyes and shrugged.  “I’ve been told.”

“And you don’t remember your nightmares?”

Draco swallowed.  “Most of my nightmares I remember vividly, and I suspect that Hermione remembers hers, too.  But these -” He tilted the vase in Hermione’s direction “- aren’t regular nightmares.  Ones like this I don’t remember; I just wake up sweaty, exhausted, and confused, and sometimes other people tell me about them.”

“Is there anything you can do to stop them?”

Draco frowned slightly and shrugged again.  “I take a potion to help me sleep - to prevent them - but I don’t know how to stop one in progress.”  He watched as Hermione curled into the fetal position facing the back of the sofa, her arms raised to protect her head.  She was no longer screaming, but her breathing was still erratic.  Draco suppressed a spontaneous urge to wrap her in his arms and stroke her hair - to absorb some of her turmoil.

“What is that?” Mr Granger voiced aloud, moving closer to examine a mark on Hermione’s forearm.

Oh fuck.  Draco suddenly felt sick.

Mr Granger squinted as he peered at the letters.  “Mudblood,” he read.  “My God!” The colour drained from his face.  Draco was fairly certain that his own did, too, as Mr Granger turned on him.  “Did you do this to her?” he demanded.  “That wasn’t there before!”

Draco did do it to her, in a way. Still, he wasn’t willing to get sent to Azkaban for claiming fault for an act that he didn’t actually physically commit.  “No! She’s had that for months now.  Her concealment charm has worn off.”

Mrs Granger huddled in beside her husband, her eyes like goblets as she stared disbelievingly at the scar, her lower lip beginning to tremble.

Hermione’s dad glared so menacingly that Draco started to reconsider his position on the powerlessness of muggles.  “Who the hell did that to her?” he spat through clenched teeth.

Draco swallowed, trying to ignore his roiling stomach.  “A high-level Death Eater.  She...she did it when Hermione got captured in the spring.”

Both Grangers’ eyes went wide.  “Pardon?” Mrs Granger said.

Mr Granger’s jaw looked ready to pop from pressure, though his complexion had turned so pale that Draco wondered how he remained conscious.

Mr Granger stared at the scar another moment and then dropped into a wingback chair, shoving his fingers through his hair.

“Hermione was captured?” Mrs. Granger repeated.  “You mean, she was a prisoner?”

Words wouldn’t come, so Draco simply nodded.

“What’s the name of this Death Eater?” Mr Granger asked tightly.

Draco hesitated, the taste of bile infiltrating his mouth.

“I need to know!”

He cleared his throat.  “Her name was Bellatrix Lestrange.”

The muggle man looked up.  “Was?”

Draco nodded again, a fresh surge of bile rising up.  “She was killed during the final battle of the war.”  He suddenly felt very hot and light-headed.

Mr Granger’s eyes pierced into him.  Did he sense that Draco was omitting something?

Softer, Mr Granger asked, “Do you have scars like that, too, Draco?”

Draco glanced toward his own covered forearm, and the vase slipped through his fingers to the hardwood floor with a crash.  He ran for the ground floor loo, where a stream of vomit unglamorously erupted from him.

He flinched as someone touched his back.  Hermione’s mum was standing sentinel with a damp flannel for him.

She gave him some privacy to clean up.  He re-emerged to find Hermione finally settled into a deep sleep.  A strand of hair lay across her face, and he reached to brush it aside before catching himself and snapping his hand back.

Her parents’ voices wafted in from the kitchen.

“Alan, they’ve obviously experienced major trauma!  It sounds like magic can help.  If Hermione will sleep better with her wand, then we should let her!  If there’s a potion to help her sleep, then let’s get it for her.”

“Carol, that’s only going to cover up the problem.  Would you rather her use a concealment charm every day to hide the truth from us?  Because that’s what she’s been doing!”

“Well I’m not about to let her just suffer.  Or Draco either, for that matter.  They’re still kids, Alan!”

There was a long pause.  “I still don’t agree with the wand at home; she used to keep it locked in her school trunk all summer, remember?  She can re-learn to get along without it.  Just - Just hear me out, Carol.  But let’s find out more about potions.  And therapy.”

“For both of them.”

Draco could hear the exhausted sigh all the way in the sitting room.  “Yes, for both of them.”

Draco trudged up the stairs, not bothering to say goodnight.  He didn’t know what therapy was, but if they thought it would help Hermione, it couldn’t be a bad thing.  He climbed back onto the bed and stared vacantly at the images of cell division displayed in the open textbook.

Retreat in a book.  A bitter chuckle bubbled past his lips.  For coming from such different cultures, he and Granger were eerily alike sometimes.  The absolute irony was not lost on him.

He tried to re-immerse himself in the phases of mitosis, but it was pointless.  Visions of a screaming Hermione Granger mixed with memories that he would give up his Gringotts vault to forget.  He’d be unable to sleep now, and even if he eventually succumbed, he’d likely end up going mindlessly berserk like Granger had.

Resignedly, he climbed out of bed and unstoppered a new vial of Dreamless Sleep.  He hadn’t told the Grangers that prolonged use reduced its effectiveness, but he hardly cared at the moment.  He’d do whatever it took to forget about Hermione’s pleading screams and terrified expressions, even if only for a few hours.

 

~~~~~~~

 

**Wednesday, June 24, 1998**

 

Hermione let out an enormous yawn and stretched her tight muscles.  She wrenched her eyes open and yawned again, almost as exhausted now as she’d been when she’d gone to bed.  She glanced to her right and noted the early morning sunlight filtering in through her bedroom curtains.  She rolled her head to the other side and saw… an open door.

She was on her feet in an instant, running toward the corridor.  She hadn’t left her door open!  Someone was here!  She needed her wand!  And it was fourteen seconds away!

She stopped cold at the sight that greeted her.

Her father was standing at the door of the first floor bathroom, coaching Draco Malfoy on using dental floss.  This was definitely the _strangest_ dream she’d had in a long time.  She’d have to try to analyse it later.  She started to turn back toward her bed, but his voice called to her.

“Morning, Chickpea.  How’re you feeling?”

She rubbed her eyes.  “Uh, okay.  Morning, Dad.  Morning, Ma- er, Draco.”

She inched her way past them, noting her father’s tired eyes.  Maybe this wasn’t a dream.  Draco’s nose was scrunched up as he tried to remove the floss stuck between his upper molars, his face going pink and his eyes landing anywhere but on her.

“Hermione, can you believe that Draco’s never flossed before?  His gums are really remarkable considering…”

“Uh, yeah, I can believe it, Dad.  Hey - did you open my door this morning?”

Her father’s light expression turned somber.  “You did, love.  You’ve been moving around the house most of the night.  We helped you back to your bed a few hours ago.”

Really?  She flushed.  “Um, sorry to have disturbed you.”

Her father was beside her in an instant, his arms wrapped tightly around her.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  I want you to disturb me, Hermione.  As does your mum.  We want to understand and help you."  He cleared his throat.  "I’m sorry about my reaction yesterday.  I just...It hurts to know that you’re hiding things from us.”  He started to sway with her a little, and she let him.  “We love you so much.  Please let us be here for you.”

Tears were starting to gather in her eyes.  She jerked her head against his chest in a wordless nod.  She allowed them a few more moments together before she stepped back, breaking contact, anxious now to check the wards.  But first she needed to make sure that her wand was where she’d left it.

As she moved to make her way down the stairs - eleven seconds from here, she estimated - she caught Draco staring, the thin white string dangling from his mouth, his eyes glistening with what looked like envy.  It occurred to her that Lucius Malfoy had probably never said such things to Draco.  She couldn’t imagine him apologising to his son for anything.  A heavy sadness suddenly struck Hermione’s heart like a lead weight.  Perhaps being here, with her family, would help Draco to not only learn about muggles, but also to witness the forgiveness and humility that come with love.

 

~~~~~~~

 

**Thursday, June 25, 1998**

 

Draco quickly brushed the stray soot from his robes as he emerged from the floo in the Grangers’ sitting room.  His fingers clawed into his arm, his palm, his neck - his whole left side itched like fucking hell.  Damned hex.  He probably should have gone to Madam Pomfrey as soon as he'd been hit, but it hadn’t felt this strong before, and he’d been eager to get ‘home.'

He glanced around.  No one was in the sitting room, watching the telly. [ _That_ was certainly a curious contraption.  He’d stared at it in wonder for several hours the day before, silently observing at first, and then asking a few hesitant questions before the floodgates opened and his relentless inquisition caused Mrs. Granger to chuckle and comment that he reminded her of four-year-old Hermione.]  The dining room and kitchen were likewise empty.  “Hullo?”

He charged through all three levels of the house, discomfited by the emptiness.  At the Manor he was used to lifeless rooms and being alone, but here it felt unsettling, as if the life that had recently infused the space had been stolen.

He finally went into the back yard and heard their voices coming from the detached garage beside the house.  He let out a breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

He walked smoothly to the open garage door, affecting a casual stance as he leaned against the door frame.  He crossed his arms, discreetly scratching at his itchy torso.

“Draco!  You’re back!” Mrs Granger declared pleasantly, and everyone twisted to look at him, allowing Draco to see the new, silvery car they must’ve just purchased.  Draco had read about cars and had seen them during their walks the past two days, but he’d never been this close to one.

“It’s a BMW 5 series,” Mr Granger said.  “Last year’s model, so we got an excellent deal.”  He was smiling broadly.

“I’m sure Draco doesn’t care about the model, Dad,” Hermione said quietly, her arms crossed just below her breasts.

“He should,” an athletic, dark-haired man in his early twenties asserted.  “This is an E39, Hermione, so it’s very modern.  A 523i.”  The man’s eyes slid over the car enviously.  “It can go 0-100 in 8.5 seconds, and can run at over 225 kilometres per hour, which is awesome for a four-door saloon.”

Who was this git?

Hermione’s brow lifted.  “And when will any of us need to go over 225 kilometres per hour, Paul?  Just because you can dart dangerously around traffic doesn’t mean that other people should.”

“Oh, my, I’m so sorry!  Where are my manners?” Mrs Granger said.  “Draco Malfoy, please meet Paul Knight.  Paul and his grandparents have been our neighbours for years.  He and Hermione knew each other as children, and now he’s training to be a paramedic in London.”

Draco registered the proud tone in Mrs Granger’s expression a moment before the the man’s blinding smile put Draco on alert.

“And Paul,” Mrs Granger continued. “Draco is one of Hermione’s schoolmates.  He’ll be staying with us for a while.”

The man eyed Draco’s robes curiously and then stuck out his hand.  Despite an instant dislike, Draco took it.  His mother had taught him some manners, after all.

“So, you go to Hermione’s mysterious, super-selective school, huh?  What do you study there?  This lot is very tight-lipped about the place.”

Draco shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes never left Paul’s, never even blinked.  Coolly, he said, “I suppose I’m rather tight-lipped about it, too.  Have to maintain the air of mystery, you understand.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, then suddenly they shifted from Draco’s face to his neck.  Draco’s hand involuntarily lifted to his own collar, covering the spot where this neighbour was staring.  Was it red there?  It itched like mad.

“Paul took my dad to purchase the car today,” Hermione cut in.  It was obvious redirection, but it worked.

“Which, of course, I chose for its safety features,” Mr Granger added, and his wife smacked him playfully in the chest again.  “What?!  It’s true!  All-steel bodywork, dual airbags, anti-lock brakes, traction control…”

Draco noticed amusedly that Hermione and her mum gave identical eyerolls.

“Right,” Paul added.  “And this has the automatic transmission, so Hermione has no excuses anymore.”  He shot a wink in Hermione’s direction.

Her eyebrows darted up.  “Pardon?”

“You can finally learn to drive.  I’ll even teach you.”  He winked again.

Draco’s gaze riveted on Hermione’s reaction.  Her eyes narrowed while her brows remained by her hairline.

“What makes you think -” Hermione started indignantly, and Draco almost smiled.

“Nice try, son!” Mr Granger cut off her tirade by clapping Paul on the shoulder. “Eager to drive this beauty, are you?”

Draco coughed at the double entendre, which he sure as hell hoped was unintentional. He scratched at his neck again.

“Definitely.  I bet Draco here appreciates the luxury of driving a pretty girl around in a classy vehicle, too.”  Draco didn’t, but he was catching on.  Though in all honesty, Hermione seemed quite immune to the trappings.

He scratched his neck again just as Hermione glanced his way.  Her brow furrowed.

“Are you feeling all right, Draco?”

“Of course.  Why?”

“Your neck...it’s all splotchy and swollen.  And are you scratching your palm?”

Shite.  “I’m fine.”

“I was noticing that, too,” Paul said.  “It looks like a histamine reaction.”

“Do you have any allergies?” Mrs Granger suddenly asked, slipping into healer mode.  She approached him and gently tugged back the collar of his robe.

“None that I know of.”

She started to push back his left sleeve, and Draco panicked.  His right hand slapped down, holding the fabric in place as he pitched backward, his feet stumbling slightly on the driveway.

Hermione was beside him in an instant.

“I’ll take him in the house to get some medicine, Mum.  Come on, Draco.”  She pulled him by the loose fabric of his robe, and once they’d rounded the corner she grabbed his wrist and tugged him into the house and up the stairs.

She shoved him into his room and ordered, “Take off your shirt.”  Then she spun on her heel and left, presumably to get some sort of medicine.

When she returned, she held out a tiny capsule to him.

“Here.  Swallow this.”

He took it reluctantly as she looked him over, a wave of heat following the path of her scrutiny.

“You got hexed.”

“Really?  I hadn’t noticed,” he snarked sarcastically.  “But thank you for sharing that news flash, Granger.”

She let out a long-suffering breath and unscrewed the cap from a white tube.  “Why are you being difficult now?  I’m trying to help you.”  She squirted a blob of white ointment into her palm and began rubbing it on his itchy skin.  He shuddered as her hand trailed across his bicep and ghosted over his rib cage.

Draco looked over at her face.  She was biting her lip, her eyes stubbornly locked on her task.  Her hair was frizzing out and she had a few freckles on her nose from the summer sun.  She was beautiful - not like the flashy car, but more like sunlight reflecting off of dewy grass.  He should apologise to her.  For everything.  Or at the very least thank her for her help.

He opened his mouth, but the sound caught in his throat as she used both of her hands to massage the ointment down his arm and into his skin.  Her hands slowed slightly as they passed over his Dark Mark, and Draco tensed.

She didn’t pull away.  So he didn’t either.

They were both somber for a long moment, looking down at the marred skin between them.  But then it passed, and Hermione re-capped the tube of ointment.

 _Say something, you duffer!_  

He cleared his throat.  “Do you think your dad will let me drive the car?  It’s _almost_ as fast as a Firebolt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Symptoms of PTSD can manifest differently for victims, and their loved ones can have diverse reactions to it. This chapter is not meant to make a definitive statement about PTSD or night terrors. The description of Hermione's episode is based on my own experience. My husband and I have been foster parents for years, and we've witnessed a lot of post-traumatic stress, including sleep disturbance. As one example, my youngest son (adopted from foster care) experienced such bad trauma that for years he had nightly sleep terrors and sleepwalking. After much therapy and many appointments with medical sleep specialists, I'm glad to share that he now very rarely has night terrors. This gives me hope for other victims out there, and if you are experiencing sleep disturbance related to post-traumatic stress, I highly recommend seeking professional help. All the best, sirel


	11. Practice and Points

**Sunday, July 5, 1998**

 

“Ready to go, darling?”

Hermione glanced at her mum’s smile as she lumbered into the kitchen, freshly clad in her white tennis tank and pleated skorts, her hair up in a tight ponytail.  Her mum was folding laundry and placing the items very precisely into a basket, while her father shot her a grin from where he was finishing up the breakfast dishes at the kitchen sink.

“I suppose so,” Hermione muttered as she reached for a laundered bath towel and began neatly folding the edges together.  “I’m really out of practice.”

Her dad dried his hands on a dishtowel and ambled towards her, placing his hands gently on her shoulders from behind.  “Well, perhaps practice should be the word of the day.”

What?  Hermione swiveled her head to look up at him.  With a cheeky grin, he pulled the car key from his pocket and dangled it in front of her.  She shot out of his grip and spun to fully face him, swinging her head back and forth.  “No. No, no, no.  It went terribly enough the other day.  I don’t need you clenching onto the handbrake and hollering at me again.”

A flicker of hurt crossed her dad’s features.  “Well, we both learned from that experience.”

“Besides,” her mum cut in.  “Your dad’s got work to do, so I’ll go with you today.  You can drive Draco and me to the tennis club.”

A groan rose in Hermione’s throat, and she tried to stifle it with a cough.  “I really don’t need to learn to drive, Mum.  I’ve told you both; I plan to work in the wizarding world after I graduate.  Nobody drives there.”

“I understand, darling, but it’s still an important skill to have.”

“We insisted on you having swimming lessons as a girl even though we don’t have a pool,” her dad added.  “Why?  Because you never know when you might need to swim.  Same with driving.”

Ugh.  She hated when he scored a point like that.  She stepped forward and reluctantly plucked the key from his fingers.

His eyebrows suddenly jolted together.  “What’s that?”  His eyes homed in on her neck, and Hermione’s hand darted up automatically.  The scar on her neck.  It was usually covered by her hair.  Ugh.  Her stomach churned.  She really, _really_ didn’t want to think about Bellatrix Lestrange right now, but that psychotic cackle and those dark, twiny locks were already pummeling her memory.

Her mum was suddenly beside her, wrapping her arm around her shoulders.  “Yes, Alan,” her mum said.  “Hermione has a scar there.  Dr Cooper is aware of it.”

After learning more details of her experiences from the past year, her parents had insisted that Hermione see the family’s GP, leading to a _very_ thorough examination - and some creative explanations - the previous week.

“And what does Dr Cooper think of it?” her dad dismally inquired.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably.  Her mum clucked her tongue and raised her eyebrows in a meaningful, let’s-discuss-this-later-behind-closed-doors sort of way.

Her dad cleared his throat.  “Any news from that healer lady yet?”

“Nothing new,” Hermione reported, grabbing up a pair of trousers and trying to refocus all of her attention on folding them.  

“I’ll follow up tomorrow,” her mum replied.

Beyond the GP visit, the previous week had also led to an inquiry about therapy options.  Hermione was not thrilled about the prospect, but her parents were adamant.  They agreed that a regular muggle therapist would not be the ideal option, but as far as Hermione knew, the wizarding world did not engage in psychotherapy.  There was no department at St. Mungo’s for it.  Her mum - determined and action-oriented as ever - had taken up the charge, contacting Professor McGonagall, who then got them in touch with Moira Markley.  She in turn had reached out to a half-blood colleague at St. Mungo’s whose squib sister supposedly worked as a therapist in Maidstone.  Hermione really did not want to bother some stranger with her problems, but McGonagall and Moira had been very eager to help, causing her pause.  She must not be covering her fucked-up-edness as well as she’d thought since they were all so keen to shove her onto the proverbial shrink’s couch.

“Good,” her dad said as Hermione reached for another pair of trousers.  She was just pinching the legs together when a sound from the sitting room caught her attention.  The floo!  No!  Her wand was in there, a good six or seven seconds away!  

She dropped the trousers and took off running, arriving just as little green sparks appeared.  She could hear someone behind the ward, but they hadn’t busted through yet.  She quickly glanced at the blanched faces of her parents and defiantly scooped up her wand.

She extended her arm and raised her chin, the vinewood loose in her fingers.  “Who’s there?”

There was a rustling behind the wall.  Should she contact an auror?  She cleared her throat and more clearly asserted, “Who’s there?”  Her ears picked up the sound of Draco rushing down the stairs and her father moving beside her, but she kept her eyes trained on the floo port.  “ _Aparecium_.”

The back of the fireplace became transparent, revealing the startled figure of Ian Oddy fiddling with something on the wall.

“Oh!  Oh my!  G’morning Miss Granger!  I didn’t mean to disturb you!”  His eyes darted wildly at the other people in the room, and he gave a bit of a nod to each of her parents as he stepped fully through the ward.

“Mr Oddy?  What brings you here?”

“It’s among my duties to periodically check the time stamps on the floo ports.  I’m really very sorry for disturbing you.”  His mouth lifted into an abashed grin, and Hermione could have sworn that his eyes twinkled at her.

“On a Sunday?” Draco asked, his eyes narrowed and his voice hard.

Oddy shot a look a pure loathing in Draco’s direction before refocusing his gaze on Hermione and softening again.  “Yes, busy time at the ministry, you know.  We all have to do our part, often working unconventional hours.”

“Of course.  Thank you for your service, Mr Oddy,” Hermione replied politely.

He smiled.  “I’ve told you before Miss Granger.  Please call me Ian.”

She nodded.  “Ian.  Thank you.”  This man was helping to maintain their wards, and she would be as pleasant as necessary to remain in his good graces.

They stood awkwardly for a moment as he gazed at her with a starstruck grin.  Should she offer him tea or something?

He suddenly snapped to attention.  “Well, back to it!  Have a wonderful day,” and he dipped his head once again at her parents, completely ignoring the young convict hovering in the entry hall.

Hermione flicked her wand, and the floo wall once again turned opaque.

“That was….” her mum uttered, dragging out the word.

“Weird,” her dad supplied.

“Indeed,” Draco said as he slipped more fully into the room.  

Hermione turned to level a look at him.  “He’s just doing his job.  You ready to go?”  She allowed her gaze to slide down his body, taking in the lightly gelled blond hair, the zipped white-and-forest green tennis jacket, the white athletic shorts, and the brand new shoes.  His bare legs were blindingly pale.  She lifted her eyes in time to see his cheeks colouring under her scrutiny.

“Oh!  You look wonderful, Draco!  See, I told you those shorts would be great!” her mum cooed.  She had taken him shopping a few days ago.  Hermione had been invited and had briefly considered going along for protection purposes, but ultimately her aversion to shopping in general and crowds in particular had convinced her to stay home.  She knew by then that Draco did not pose a threat to her parents, and his discomfort at Hermione’s absence on the outing was just icing on the cake.  Of course, she hadn’t expected the two of them to come home so chummy.

“How do you feel in them?” her mum asked.  Draco shrugged and brushed at the front of his jacket.

“Hermione, did you know that this is Draco’s first time ever wearing shorts?  It took a lot of convincing at the store, but doesn’t he look great?  Just like a muggle.”  Her mum smiled broadly.

Hermione noted Draco’s eyes glance fleetingly toward her own before dropping to examine the cuff of his jacket.  He did look good - almost like a completely different person outside of his black wizarding robes.  His complexion appeared healthier, and the clothes themselves hugged the frame of his body, outlining his firm arse and masculine shoulders.  She’d never particularly thought of Draco as muscular before, but she was sure as hell thinking it now.  She cleared her throat.  “He’ll fit in fine at the club.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Ooh, better slow down, Hermione.  That girl walking her dog almost passed us.”

Draco couldn’t hold it in any longer, and he’d really tried.  For ten minutes he’d been sprawled in the back seat, trying to ignore the fact that they were crawling down the road slower than a flobberworm.

“Shut your mouth, Malfoy,” Hermione snapped, hands gripping the steering wheel.  “Caution is a virtue.”

“Draco…” Carol Granger murmured mildly from the front seat.  “Leave her be.”  She redirected her attention to Hermione. “You’re doing wonderfully, darling.  We’re halfway there.”

Draco sighed and leaned back, weaving his fingers behind his head.  He couldn’t wait until the ministry bureaucrats pulled their wands out of their backsides and got him his faux-muggle paperwork.  He’d been waiting for days to apply for his own provisional driving licence.  After all, if he had to live as a muggle, he may as well go all out.

He gazed out the car window at the roofs of houses and branches of trees glistening peacefully in the summer sun.  People were out with bicycles, running shoes, and prams.  What would this place be like if the Dark Lord had won?

Charred... Deserted… Strewn with -

 _Stop, stop, stop._   The what-ifs never led to anything good.

He leaned forward again to glance at the speedometer.  35 kph.  Fucking hell.  To distract himself, he allowed his gaze to slide over the smooth-looking skin of Hermione’s bare arm and land on her exposed left thigh.  A spark of arousal flickered within.  It wasn't that she was showing much more leg than the uniforms at Hogwarts allowed, but for some reason seeing her apart from the sea of girls all wearing the same drab grey skirts was especially appealing.  He watched her muscles flex minutely as she prepared to push the brake.  He could too easily imagine those muscles locked around his waist, tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing...

“We’re here!” Carol Granger chirped.  “Well done, Hermione.”

Thank Merlin.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Hermione eased her way through the tight, antiquated clubhouse, smiling at the familiar watercolours lining the walls and the lemony scent of the wood floor polish assaulting her nose.  She hadn’t been here in a few years, but it was just as she remembered.

It was a small club, tucked away from the hubbub of town behind tall leafy hedges, with just a few courts, a grassy lawn, and a clubhouse for social functions.  The place felt like tradition and community, and her mother loved it.  Her family had been members forever.

Hermione uttered a few pleasantries to one of her mum’s friends - who to her _complete_ mortification cooed about Hermione’s developing curves - before promptly pushing through the door toward the outdoor courts.  Draco hesitantly followed along, silently eyeing everything.

She allowed her own eyes to dart to every corner, every hedge, every blade of grass before glancing over her shoulder.  Good.  Her mum was still inside.  In an instant, her wand was out of her bag and she was casting nonverbal protection spells around the place.  She could feel Draco’s eyes on her, but he said nothing, and she pushed him from her mind as she let out a breath filled with satisfied relief, allowing her lids to fall closed and the sun to warm her skin.

“So,” his words finally cut through her zen.  “How do you play this preposterous game?”

She reluctantly pried her eyes back open and pursed her lips slightly.

“I mean, I assume there’s more to it than standing around in revealing clothing.”  He plucked awkwardly at the hem of his shorts before deliberately inching his gaze up her body from shoes to hair, lingering slightly on her thighs and chest.  “Not that I’m complaining, really.”

Hermione felt a heated flush wash over her body at his words.  She quickly placed her hands on her hips and pointedly rolled her eyes.  “People run a lot in this game, Draco.  They wear these clothes because they get hot and sweaty.”

His silvery eyes flashed.  Hermione quite tangibly felt her cheeks pinken.  Gruffly she declared, “Grab a racket.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco scowled, using the back of his hand to wipe a trail of sweat off of his brow.  

 _Stupid_ \- that’s what this game was.  Not that he should have expected anything different from muggles.  The rules were childishly easy, but the execution, well...wasn’t.  Apparently, he actually had to move.  Had he been on a broom, he could have twisted and rolled effortlessly towards his target, but here, his damned feet kept tripping him up, while artless Hermione Granger drifted around with an ease that he would have never imagined her possessing.

“Good effort, Draco,” Carol Granger consoled from beside him.  “Keep at it.”  Right.  The only thing keeping him from hurtling the damned racket over the hedge was the brunette across the net from him.  Hermione had barely beaten him out in academics at Hogwarts, and he’d be damned if he’d let her get the upper hand in athletics, too.

“This is coming right to you, Draco,” she called.  “Thirty-Love.”  She tossed the ball smoothly into the air and stretched out her arm, her breasts bouncing slightly with the movement.  The ball sailed straight to him, and he quickly managed to return it, only to have it careen towards him again, bouncing off the tip of his racket and zooming into the neighbouring court.

“Beautiful serve,” a voice intoned from behind him, causing Draco’s skin to prickle.  He spun around to see Paul Knight standing on the grass, a beatific smile on his face.

“Hello, Paul,” Carol Granger greeted warmly.  “Are you playing today?”

“My grandmother mentioned you were headed to the club, so I thought I’d stop by before my shift.  Draco,” he said, extending his hand.  Draco allowed the contact but didn’t meet Paul’s eyes.  “Hermione.”

Draco glanced over and watched as Hermione gave a little wave, her teeth clamping onto her lip. How he wished that he were a legilimens right now.

“Care to join us for doubles?” Carol asked.  

“Sure.”  Paul nodded, and Draco immediately started working his way toward Hermione’s side of the court, before he noticed that Paul was heading there, too.  He glanced in her direction and saw her eyes widen.

“Mum, how about you and I be on a team?” she said hastily.  “We haven’t played together in ages.”

Fabulous.  Draco swallowed his misery and moved to the side of the court, unzipping his jacket to reveal the new, forest green polo beneath.

“You play much, Draco?” Paul asked.

Draco tugged off the sleeves and set his jacket on a bench.  “First time.”

“Really?”  Paul rolled his head from side to side, stretching his neck.  “Hermione and I used to play a lot when we were younger.  She’s pretty good…”  He leaned in conspiratorially, “but I’m better.”

Involuntarily ire rose within Draco, but he simply clenched his racket, moving into the indicated section of the court.

“Wow.  That’s some tattoo you’ve got there,” Paul commented, and Draco willed his mask to remain firm.  “How old are you again?”

“Eighteen.”

“Hmm,” Paul huffed, staring at the cursed Mark.  “Didn’t think Hermione much went for the tattooed sort.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed.  “Never said she did.”

In fact, he was quite certain that the ‘sort’ with this particular tattoo was about the most repulsive lot on the planet to her.

Carol tossed a ball over the net for Paul to serve.

“Oh?  So you and she aren’t -”

“No.  Definitely not.”

Paul’s eyebrows slid up, followed immediately by the corner of his mouth.  He struck an easy stance and called out, “Love-all.”  The ball rallied across the net a few times before Draco sent a wild return out of bounds.

“So, you’re just schoolmates, then?”  

Was he a fucking berk?  Move on already.  “Correct.”

Paul smiled.  “Love-fifteen!”  The ball flew straight to Hermione, who sent it to Draco.  

He miraculously managed to hit it toward Carol.  “But she has a ginger arsehole for a boyfriend.”

Paul jerked his head toward Draco.  Too late, the cocky bloke registered the ball crossing the net.  Paul darted as the ball thumped in-bounds near his sideline. Swinging his racket rashly, he just managed to make contact with the ball, sending it soaring into the hedge.

Draco smirked, his inner Slytherin rejoicing at turning a point lost into a figurative point gained.

 

~~~~~~~

 

**Monday, July 6, 1998**

 

Draco gently tossed the biology textbook onto the bed beside him, unable to keep his attention on the biosphere chapter.  He kept listening for the telltale sounds of Hermione’s return, but instead all he heard was the occasional chattering of her parents downstairs.  They were worried, he knew, and Draco expected that her father was already pacing the length of the ground floor.

She had missed dinner - a special homemade meal that her mum had prepared to offer comfort after the anticipated challenges of the Rookwood trial that morning.  But the morning had stretched to afternoon and evening, and now the bedroom clock blazed 10:16pm.  

She was probably just out with friends, he reasoned.  After all, she was a fully-grown witch who was not used to living under her parents’ roof.  He hoped that she was not too affected by the trial itself - but even if she was, she was undoubtedly finding comfort with Weasley right now.  Would she stay with him all night?  Was she avoiding coming home to another marked Death Eater?

He sighed and got up to rifle through the desk drawer for the motorbike adverts that he’d snagged for free on his most recent outing with Carol.  He was just flipping to his dog-eared pages when he heard Mr Granger exclaim, “Hermione!  You’ve had us worried sick!”

Draco froze, straining to listen.

Carol’s higher voice shrilled, “Hermione!  Darling?  Are you all right?  Hermione?”

There was a dull thudding of feet on the stairs.  

“Hermione?” her mum continued.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

The door down the corridor slammed shut, and a moment later, muffled sobs carried to him.  Her parents’ voices were closer now.

“Hermione, please don’t shut us out,” her mum pleaded.  “Talk to us.”

“Carol, let’s just give her some space,” Mr Granger suggested.  “Hermione, we’re here for you when you’re ready.  We love you, Chickpea.”

The sobbing grew louder, and Draco swore that Carol’s cries joined in before tapering off toward the next floor.

Draco was rooted in place, the raw emotion of the know-it-all muggleborn tearing at something inside.  He wanted to go see her, but what could he possibly say?  What could he possibly do?  The flesh on his forearm was a stark reminder that he was the enemy.  If he cared for her at all, he should just stay away.

He climbed onto his bed and screwed his eyes shut.  What had happened?  

Augustus Rookwood had been a long-time friend of his father’s, and once upon a time, Draco had looked upon his intelligent mystique and jovial personality with nothing short of admiration.  But recent years had shown him to be an unscrupulous, slippery bastard, and the extent of his wicked detachment left Draco completely nauseous.  From the snippets he’d heard, Hermione had encountered him more than once.  He could picture it - could see the curses zipping through the air - and while he knew that the Gryffindor was too noble to cast an unforgivable, he likewise knew that Rookwood wouldn’t hesitate.

The images assailed him: Hermione, under Rookwood’s fire, perhaps mere centimetres from death.  Hermione, frozen in horror, the putrid Greyback rubbing up against her.  Hermione, on the floor, a knife at her throat.

He hugged his knees to his chest, clutching the fabric of his pyjamas in white-knuckled fists, his head tucked forward.  He rocked himself slightly forward and back, willing the awful images to leave him.

A sound at his door instantly brought his head up.  Hermione stood in the doorway in an oversized t-shirt and purple flannelette bottoms, her eyes red and her face puffy.  Her lips parted slightly as if to speak, but no words came out.

Draco just stared, afraid to move.  He felt her eyes shift to his arm as he watched her mouth silently move again.  Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Can I help you with something, Granger?”

Her eyes shot up to his, and she lifted her chin determinedly.  “I, uh, need some Dreamless Sleep.  I’ll pay you back if I can use some of yours.”

He stared at her a moment longer, and then padded to his trunk.  Carefully, he pulled out two vials.  He approached her smoothly, extending one out.  She took it from his hand, the skin of their fingers briefly connecting before he unstoppered his cork in a well-practised movement.  “Cheers, Granger.”  He tilted his vial in her direction.

A small frown pulled at her lips as she peered up at him.  “Cheers,” she said somberly, clinking the glass tubes together.  Draco kept his eyes trained on her as together they threw back the contents and were out.


	12. Constraints and Complaints

**Tuesday, July 7, 1998**

 

Draco let out a quiet groan as his eyelids slid open, the red numbers of the clock beaming brightly in the surrounding darkness.  2:30 a.m.  Ugh.  He really ought to go back to sleep, but without the influence of the potion, the nightmares were sure to come.  Of course, he could just take more…

He scrubbed a hand against his face.  A niggling inner voice screamed that he was already taking too much of the purple elixir, and succumbing to twice in a night seemed like crossing a line.  At this rate he’d run out before he could have the elves at the Manor replenish his supply.

But fuck it all, he needed it.

He tossed off the duvet and stood up, turning towards his trunk.

A subtle movement in the darkness stole his attention.  He gasped, his heart momentarily petrified before hammering against his ribs, his hands scrambling helplessly for an absent wand.  He peered at the lump half-dangling off the other side of his bed - fairly still and in the open, so probably not some vigilante auror or disgruntled Death Eater waiting in the shadows...

Cautiously, he stepped around the end of the bed, trying to get a better look in the limited light.  The body was lying prone above the covers, with one leg hanging fully off the bed and the other foot resting near the edge.  Hands were tucked up near the chin, while the whole head was covered by a mass of wayward locks.

Hermione.

Memories of the previous night flittered across his consciousness.  The missed dinner.  The crying.  The potion.  And now she was on his bed.

Myriad options darted through his mind:

He could let her stay next to him, but he didn’t know if he wanted to see her reaction when she woke up.  He could easily imagine her hollering, her father bursting into the room...

He could leave her on his bed while he trudged down to the sofa, but he definitely wouldn’t get anymore sleep if he moved down there...

He could wake her up and send her out, but why waste the Dreamless Sleep she’d taken?

He edged up to the bed and leaned over her.  Easing his hands to her waist and leg, he rolled her over and slipped his arms under her body, carefully lifting her against his chest.  She was lighter than he expected, her muscles relaxed and her facial features serene.  Had he _ever_ seen her this tranquil?  It was hard to recall a time when she wasn’t wound up about something.

He carried her through his open doorway toward her own bedroom.  Delivering a small kick to her door, he sidled into the room and gently lowered her to her bed, his body leaning against hers as he slowly slid his arms out from under her.  They were so close - physically closer than they’d ever been - and he momentarily inhaled the familiar orange-blossom fragrance of her hair.  The scent washed over him, irrationally intoxicating, and without thought, his lips ghosted across her forehead and planted themselves against her temple.

Instantly, his eyes popped wide and he jolted back a few steps.  What by Salazar’s scalp was he doing?!  He turned and hastily retreated to her door.  Poking his head out, he glanced along the darkened corridor, relief flooding through him at not having been seen.  He darted to his own room and silently pulled the door shut before diving onto his bed and clutching his hair in his fists.

He’d allowed himself to kiss Hermione.  No, Granger, the know-it-all Muggleborn.  What the bloody hell was wrong with him?  Sure, he’d been privately attracted to her for years, but fantasies were normal for teenage wizards, right?  That didn’t mean he should _act_ on it.  There was a definite line between thinking and doing, especially when his parents would disown him and her parents might fucking kick him out.  She had a damned hero boyfriend, for Merlin’s sake.  Obviously he’d been lacking quality companionship for too long.

He jabbed his fingers through his hair and dropped back onto the pillows.  He just had to forget it ever happened.  It was nothing anyway - barely a touch.  No one would even know.

He pulled the duvet over himself and rolled to face the door.  The smell of her hair lingered on the bedding, tormenting his senses and causing a bubble of anger to rise within him.  Fucking Granger.  He crossed a line because of her.  She had to be all alluring and intelligent and independent and forgiving.  And then she had come to him in a moment of need.  Despite their history and his family and the mark burned into his arm, she had come to him for help.

He closed his eyes and wrapped the bedding tighter around himself, allowing the waning fragrance to engulf him.   _She’d_ come to _him_.  He’d crossed a line, but maybe, just maybe, she’d stuck her toes across it first.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco fastened his work robes and slipped down the stairs, eager to be on his way to Hogwarts before Hermione emerged.  He was almost to the entry hall when the sound of quiet chattering resonated from the kitchen.

“I’m okay, Mum.  Really.”

Draco froze in his tracks as a newspaper rustled, followed by Mr Granger’s resolute voice.  “Your mother spent a lot of time preparing that meal for you, Hermione.  Couldn’t you have let us know?  We were worried.”

“I know, and I’m truly sorry.  Something came up, and I couldn’t ring.  There aren’t phones in Wizarding Britain.”

“Well, based on the pile of post you have on the dining room table, it seems that owls can certainly find us.”

“Alan!” Carol reprimanded.

“What?  It’s true!”

“I...I’m sorry.”  Hermione’s voice sounded tired and defeated.  “I wasn’t thinking.”

“What happened, Hermione?  Was there a problem with the court case you attended?”  Carol’s soft words echoed Draco’s thoughts.  He stepped off the final stair and stood stock-still in the hall, his hand lingering on the banister.

“The trial went as expected.  He’s going back to prison.”

Draco closed his eyes and took a breath.  Rookwood was going back to Azkaban, just like his father.  And Draco might have easily been right there with them.

“And...are you glad about that outcome?” Carol carefully prodded.

“Yes,” Hermione declared with such conviction that Draco’s stomach twisted.

“Then what kept you?” Mr Granger asked pointedly.

There was a brief pause, and the Slytherin in him instantly wondered if she was cooking up a lie.

“I had lunch with Ron and Harry, and we spent some time catching up.  I guess time got away from us.”

Most likely truth, but obviously rife with omission.  Draco’d bet twenty galleons that ‘catching up’ included some time unclothed.

“And?” Mr Granger pressed, undoubtedly sensing the gaps as well.

“It’s nothing,” Hermione hedged.  Draco could hear her rummaging through the cupboards.  “Ron and I had an argument is all.  You know how he gets sometimes.”

Draco’s eyebrows darted up.  Weasel was the reason for last night’s tears?

“You’re both fighting again?” Carol asked.  “I thought you two had, you know, finally cemented your relationship.”

There was a silent pause before Mr Granger tightly queried, “Did he hurt you?”

“No!  He’s one of my best friends.  He would never hurt me.”

There was a heavy, exasperated sigh before Mr Granger declared, “Hermione, I know he’s your long-time friend and that you get on well with his family and all, but I swear he has always brought out this mad level of emotion in you.  All the summers of tears because he didn’t write, arguments over your cat, on-again-off-again…  You were never so dramatic as a child.  We could have a pond in the backyard from all the tears you’ve shed over this guy.”

Draco blinked.  Apparently the duo’s volatility at Hogwarts carried over to life out of school as well.  What did she even see in him?  He was nowhere near her equal in intelligence or aptitude or looks or ambition...

“Are you still together?” Carol questioned.

“I...I don’t know.”

Something tingled in Draco.  He heard a collective sigh and decided to make his way toward the kitchen instead of the floo.

Hermione’s parents greeted him as he strolled in, heading straight to the fridge to remove the grapefruit juice.

Suddenly Carol asked, “I’ve been meaning to ask about your cat, Hermione.  What happened to Crookshanks?”

Draco watched as the brunette witch turned away, busying herself by grabbing him a tumbler from the cupboard.  When she faced them again, an admirable mask of indifference painted her features.  “I don’t know.”

“Did he run away?” Carol asked, somewhat alarmed.

“We got...separated...during the war,” Hermione said carefully.  “Last I saw him was at the Burrow, but the Weasleys had to...relocate, and Crooks didn’t stay with them after the move.”

“You mean the Weasleys don’t live at the Burrow anymore?”  Carol’s eyes were like saucers.

“No, they do.  They’re back, but it’s not the same, and Crooks hasn’t returned there.”

“I’m sorry, Chickpea,” Mr Granger said sympathetically.  “I know how much you adored that fluffball.  We can keep looking for him.”

Hermione shrugged, her jaw rippling slightly as she clenched back her feelings.  “He could be anywhere - if he’s even still alive.”  A vacant look momentarily crossed her features before she blinked it back.  “I just hope that he’s found another person that he deems worthy to care for him.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Malfoy!”

Draco flinched at the familiar tone, refusing to look up from where he was sorting the Hogwarts library books that could be mended from those that were beyond repair.  He was just tossing a singed Arithmancy text into a pile when footsteps thudded to a halt beside him.

“What’re you doing here, Weasley?  Surely there’s some righteous do-gooder out there in need of a sidekick.”

The redhead ground his teeth.  “Where’s Hermione?”

“Why?  Actually, let me guess.  You need to find her to apologise for some idiotic thing you did, declaring that you’ll never be a moron again?”

Weasel huffed as his eyes narrowed, and Draco couldn’t resist a slight smirk as he reached for the next book and carefully opened the cover.  “You think she’s likely to believe that?  Sounds like a tall order.”

Suddenly, Weasel grabbed Draco's robes in a fist, the smell of alcohol wafting over him.  “You don’t know shit about Hermione and me, Malfoy, so shut your mouth before I hex it shut myself.”

Draco ignored his pounding heart, focusing on keeping his breathing deceptively smooth.  “Remove your troll hands from me, Weasley.  I know that Hermione came home sobbing last night because of you.”

The Gryffindor pressed his lips together, his eyes blasting into Draco.  At length, the redhead thrust him off with a shove into the stacks.

“Where is she?” he bit out.

“How should I know?  I’m not her keeper.  Hermione is her own woman.”

Ginger brows shot up as Weasel’s eyes went wide before narrowing to slits.  His voice thrummed with conviction.  “Hermione is _my_ woman, Malfoy.  Mine.  We’re meant for each other.”

Draco swallowed a lump in his throat and casually arched a brow.  “Well, you’d best find her then, because I don’t know that she agrees.  You might try Paul’s.”

A flash of confusion swept across Weasley’s freckled face.  “Who the fuck is Paul?”

A bubble of glee surged within Draco at the realisation that he knew more than the Weasel.  “Paul Knight - her neighbour?  You know, the one she plays tennis with.”

Draco’s lips twitched at the dunderhead’s blank expression.  “The cocky bloke that’s bent on teaching her to drive…”

Weasley’s face went red.  His teeth clenched again as he turned on his heel and tore out of the library without another word.

Draco stared at the exit for a moment, a smug grin blooming across his face.  He pushed the pile of books aside and marched purposefully toward Slughorn’s floo, robes billowing behind him.  If Hermione was in Sutton, he was quite sure there’d be a show that he didn’t want to miss.  Merlin, he hadn’t felt this much like himself in ages.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Hermione lay on her parents' sofa, exhausted.  She’d spent the whole day with Dickelson getting her parents reintegrated at the dental practice.  She’d briefly considered putting in a few volunteer hours at Hogwarts as well, but for now she was too tired to deal with the memories there - of the war, of Ron…  She needed a lighthearted escape.  She plucked open her edition of _William Shakespeare: The Complete Works_ to one of her favourite comedies, _Much Ado about Nothing_ , and prepared to get lost in the witty banter between Beatrice and Benedick.

She was just beginning the second scene when a sizzle of energy alerted her to a disturbance in the wards.  She dropped the book onto the coffee table and darted for her stowed wand as a loud pounding began on the front door.  Adrenaline shot through her veins as she carefully pulled back a curtain to see who was on the front step.

Ron.  Of course.

She stalked over to the door and yanked it open, quickly taking in his red ears and furrowed brows.

“Hermione!  Where have you been?!”  He pushed through the doorway.

Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed, fingers still clutching the knob.

“I’ve been looking for you all day!  We need to talk.”  He spun in the entry hall to face her.

“Ron, I thought I made it clear that I need some space.”

“Uh, no, you just shrieked and stormed away after I suggested you move in with me.”

Her eyes closed heavily as she shut the door and crossed her arms over her chest.

“No, I left after you suggested I move _out_ of _here_.  There’s a difference.”  She opened her eyes in time to see the floo firing up and Malfoy sauntering toward the dining room.  Ron remained oblivious to the movements behind him, and she realised that he was probably a bit impaired from firewhiskey.  With this M.O., how was he even passing auror training?

“It’s the same thing!” he whined.  “And I don’t see what’s so terrible about it.”  A hint of insecurity laced his tone, bringing Hermione’s full attention back to him.

“It’s not _terrible_ , Ron.  I told you, I just need space.  My parents only just got back.”

“Who the hell is Paul?”

What?  Hermione took a small step back, a bolt of indignation darting through her.  “He’s just a neighbour, and he has nothing to do with -”

“He’s teaching you to drive?  Since when do you want to drive?  You’re a brilliant _witch_ , Mione!  I thought you planned to live in the wizarding world once you’re done with school...you know, with me…”

His bravado fizzled out, and Hermione couldn’t contain the small sigh that pushed past her lips.  “That’s another year away, Ron, and I’d still be in and out of muggle London with my family.  Driving is a good skill to have.”

Ron’s eyebrows scrunched slightly.  “You never used to care about that.  Is this your parents’ idea?  I swear, they don’t understand about wizarding culture.”

“That’s unfair, Ron.  They want to learn.”

“Bollocks, Hermione.  You told me that they don’t even let you use magic at home!  And now you have this sodding _neighbour_ and sodding _Malfoy_ and I don’t see you enough.  I need you, Mione.”

The lost look in his eyes made her stomach plummet.  She hesitated a moment, and Ron’s eyes instantly sparked with hope.  “Mione, you’re 18,” he pressed.  “You haven’t lived with your parents in years, and even when you did, you preferred to spend time with my family.  My parents love you, Mione.  I love you.  You - we - are going through a lot, and your parents just don’t understand.”

“Ron -”

“I’m not saying it’s their fault,” he interrupted.  “It’s just the reality.  But we _get_ you.  We _know_ what you’ve been through.  You know what _I’ve_ been through.”  She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.  “Move in with me, Mione.  Please.”

A small, shattering crash of something breaking near the kitchen caught both of their attention.  Ron immediately spun, wand pointing in the direction of the sound.  “Malfoy!” Ron growled, brows knitted together.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

Draco stood at his full height, perfectly poised despite his slightly pink cheeks.  “Unlike you, I live here, Weasley,” he sneered.

Ron scowled and turned back toward Hermione.  “Did you know that he was there, eavesdropping like a bloody cockroach?”

Hermione gave a slight nod.  “He’s been there for a few minutes.  I’m surprised that you didn’t notice him enter.”  She paused, debating whether to add what she was thinking, but if they were truly serious about each other, she should be able to lay it all out.  “To be honest, sometimes I really wonder about your career choice.”

Ron immediately prickled, hurt clouding his eyes.  “ _This_ is why I want to get you away from here, Hermione.  I mean you’ve always been critical, but lately you’re just so negative and superior.  You act like I can never be enough - not good enough to live with, not good enough to be an auror - for the perfect heroine Hermione Granger.  Well guess what, Hermione? _I’m_ a bloody hero, too.  You want to know why I like spending time with Samantha?  It’s because she thinks I’m great.  She sees I’m skilled.  She loves hearing my stories about the things we’ve experienced.”

Hermione felt like she’d been slapped.  “I didn’t realise that you needed me to be a fan club groupie,” she said coolly.

Ron looked at her sincerely.  “We need to be each other’s fan club, Mione.  Come away with me so I can tell you every single day how incredible you are.”  He sucked in a big breath.  “And so you can tell me.”

The words hung in the air, and Hermione belatedly realised that her mouth was gaping open like a fish.  “I…”

For once in her life, she had no clue what to say.  Ron - _her_ Ron, the young man she’d dreamed about for years - wanted to be closer to her, wanted to officially _live_ together.  Yet to achieve those ends, he'd insulted her and her family, questioned her decisions, and compared her to another woman.  He expected her to abandon her family and the commitment she’d made to the Wizengamot in order to be more available to him.

“I…”

Ron’s jaw set, and his voice came out a tad terse and desperate.  “Move _in_ with me, Mione.  I need you.”

It was too much.  She couldn’t think with him looking at her like that, and with Draco gawking wide-eyed in the background.  She needed space to sort out her thoughts.

She shook her head slightly, and Ron’s face instantly reddened, his nose whistling slightly from his sharp inhale.  He blinked, and Hermione realised that moisture was gathering in his eyes.

“That’s what I thought.”  He bolted past her, yanking the door open.

“Ron!”

It slammed closed with a cracking force so strong that the wood frame splintered, just as thoroughly as her heart.


	13. Ado and Adieu

**Thursday, July 9, 1998**

 

Measured music assailed Draco’s ears as he stepped from the floo into the Grangers’ sitting room, the late-afternoon sunlight shimmering through the front windows.

_...How can a person like me care for you_

_I, why do I bother, when you’re not the one for me_

_Oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo_

_Is enough enough?..._

There was no-one in sight, but a clattering noise drew his attention to where he suspected Hermione was busying herself in the kitchen.  Had she finally emerged?  She’d been cloistered in her bedroom ever since the blow up with Weasel two days ago, only coming out briefly the previous night for dinner with the family.

Draco brushed off his dusty work robes and headed that way, the music vibrating into him.

_...Life is demanding, without understanding_

_I saw the sign, and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign_

_No one’s gonna drag you up to get into the light where you belong…_

“Hermione?”

Perched on a stepladder beside the fridge, she turned to him, panicked, one rubber-gloved hand shooting up to her heart while the other plunked on her hip.

“Merlin, Malfoy!  Don’t you know not to sneak up on a war veteran?”

His mouth dropped open.  Her wild hair was tied up haphazardly, with strands coming loose on every side, while a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.  She wore a tight grey t-shirt, and given the sway of her breasts, he guessed that she had not bothered with a bra.  Her legs and bum were on display in minty green pyjama shorts, and her feminine feet were bare.  The whole look was atrocious, he told himself, even as his body responded to the view of her smooth skin and slightly visible nipples.  Fucking hell, he’d be thinking about this later, when he couldn’t fall asleep.  “What are you doing,” he gulped out.

She turned back towards the top of the fridge and picked up a spray bottle.  “What does it look like I’m doing?  I’m cleaning.”

She scrubbed with a vengeance, in time to the pulsing music.

_…For so many years I wondered who you are_

_How could a person like you bring me joy?_

_Under the pale moon, where I see a lot of stars…_

“Why?”  The countertops sparkled with the same meticulous luster that they usually had.  The Grangers had random piles of items stacked here and there, but as a rule their home was always hygienically clean and tidy.

“Because this house needs cleaning, Draco - obviously.  It’s not like _we_ have a crew of house elves.”  She climbed down the ladder and shifted it over to reach the top of the cupboards.

“Is this about Weasley?”

He saw Hermione flinch.  “Of course not.”  She scrubbed harder.  “I can’t believe how much dust is up here.  I thought Dickelson’s team would have been more thorough.”

“I told you on Tuesday that I’d go punch Weasel in the nose if you want.  Offer still stands.”  Salazar, he’d relish it.

Hermione huffed.  “I’m quite capable of standing up for myself, thank you.”

“Yes, I know,” Draco muttered, his hand automatically coming up to his cheekbone.  Hermione caught his movement, and a small smirk graced her features.

Draco edged up to the sink to get a glass of water when Hermione suddenly turned toward him, frowning.  He tried to keep his gaze above the smooth thighs displayed high on the stepladder.

“What are you doing?  Out, Draco!  I told you I’m cleaning, and your robes are filthy!”

“Yeah, well, the classrooms are getting fixed up, and there’s a lot of dust.  What do you expect?  Blast me with a cleansing charm if it bothers you.”  He reached for a glass and turned on the tap.

Her eyes narrowed.  “You don’t need magic.  Just go shower or something.”

What a hypocrite.  She was standing there covered in sweat, just as much in need of a shower.  Unbidden, the thought of the two of them tumbling naked together into the spray infected his mind, and his member stirred to life.  Great.

“Fine,” he growled, thudding the glass against the countertop.  He dashed toward the stairs as the final bars of the song thrummed.

_...I saw the sign, and it opened up my eyes; I saw the sign._

 

~~~~~~~

 

Ten minutes later, Hermione sighed and snapped off the rubber gloves, resignedly lugging open the glass door linking the dining room to the back yard.  “What are you doing here, Harry?”

He stood before her in his auror robes and black Converse sneakers, a tentative smile on his face.  He thrust out his hand to reveal a lumpy package wrapped in soft red fabric.  “I brought you something.  From Kreacher.”

Suspicion seeped through her, and she fiddled her fingers, immediately wishing that her wand were closer.  “Whose hair did you use for polyjuice during second year?” she asked cautiously.

Harry’s smile broadened.  “Goyle’s.  And Ron used Crabbe’s -”

Hermione clenched a bit at Ron’s name, but Harry charged on.  “ - And you _thought_ you were getting Millicent Bulstrode’s, but ended with a surprise.”  His eyes flashed puckishly.  “Meow.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips as her shoulders relaxed, and she stepped aside to let him enter.  “A one-word answer would have sufficed.”  Hesitantly, she reached out for the package.  “What is it?”

Harry shrugged and closed the door.  “You’ll see.  Open it.”

Hermione pulled at the thin golden ribbon tying the fabric together.  Warmth suffused her as she caught sight of the cookies within.  “Oatmeal raisin.  He remembered.”

“It looks like you finally won over Kreacher.”

She knew that she had.  A mantle of melancholy settled over her as she recalled those first horrible weeks following the Battle of Hogwarts, when Harry had charged into auror training with manic fervour, and Ron had spent day and night with his grieving family rebuilding the Burrow.  She’d been numb and lonely, passing through a surreal blur of funerals and press conferences, always thinking that she should have done more, feeling guilty somehow for wanting the comfort of her own family while so many others were torn apart by death.

She’d cloistered herself in at Grimmauld Place, avoiding the public as much as possible, vaguely aware that she was sinking under the weight of her worries and memories.  Standing now in her parents’ dining room, she recalled the day after they were awarded their Order of Merlins, and how absolutely miserable she’d felt - in part due to a hangover from hell, but also due to the pervasive ennui that she couldn’t seem to shake.  She’d felt unworthy, and that realisation had spurred her into finally doing _something_ to take control of her life.

Oddly, she’d started with cookies - a throwback to times with her mum, she supposed.  Kreacher had grumbled at her for invading his kitchen, but she’d refused to yield.  He’d watched her grow frustrated trying to bake the muggle recipe in the magical space, and after a few minutes he’d grunted and joined in her efforts.  By three hours later, they had magically made 56 dozen cookies, most of which they’d packaged for St Mungo’s.  They’d teamed up for the next several days, baking and making potions for the hospital, before she’d finally felt ready to take the next step.

As Ron commenced auror training, she’d announced her plan to move to Hogwarts to aid in the reconstruction.  She’d been naive thinking that Ron would be supportive.  They’d had their first big row since officially becoming a couple, and she could picture Kreacher as he’d listened from across the room.  She hadn’t backed down, and when Ron had stormed out, it had been Kreacher who’d mumbled that she deserved to seek contentment in her life.  It was with shock and a bit of unease that she’d recognized that the disgruntled old house-elf had offered more support and had played a more valuable role in rousing her from depression than her burgeoning relationship with Ron.

She sighed and forced a little smile.  “Kreacher’s a diamond in the rough.”  She looked down at the cookies.  “Why did he send these, though?”

Harry shrugged again.  “Perhaps he’s worried about you.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, stretching the word in anticipation.

Harry’s eyes raked over her, and Hermione felt her cheeks redden.  

“Well, for starters, you’re still in your pyjamas at half four in the afternoon.”

“So?” she challenged, plunking her hands on her hips.  “I’m not planning on going out today.”

“Did you go out yesterday?  Or the day before?”

“Harry, this doesn’t concern you.”

Harry’s eyes flared with hurt.  “Actually, Hermione, it does.  Let’s be honest about that.  For _years_ this thing with you and Ron has concerned me.”

“And I’m sorry about that.  You know I don’t mean for you to be in the middle.”

Harry released a heavy sigh.  “How are you doing?”

“I’m...okay, I guess.”  She felt her emotions starting to bubble up, and she blinked them back down.  “He wants us to live together.”

“Yeah, I heard.”  

Hermione was not surprised in the least that Ron had been venting to Harry.  She loved Harry, but she wasn’t going to let him wheedle her into doing Ron’s bidding.  “I’m not ready for that, Harry, so don’t even try.”

Harry huffed, his brows pulling together.  “Try what?  I haven’t an agenda, Hermione, other than to see how you’re doing.  What is it you want?”

She chewed her lip and spun toward the kitchen, Harry following a few paces behind.  “I want to get my parents settled - to spend some time with them, you know?”  She reached into a cupboard to remove a couple of plates.  “I almost lost them forever, Harry, and I don’t want to take them for granted anymore.”

“What about Malfoy?”

She opened another cupboard, frowning.  “What about him?”

“I think Ron is more upset about you being around Malfoy than being with your parents.  It drives him crazy knowing that Malfoy’s in your house, sleeping only one door away from you.”

Hermione let loose a long-suffering sigh as she set two tumblers onto the counter.  “Draco is not a threat, I assure you.  He -”

“Draco?”  Harry’s dark eyebrow quirked up.

Hermione flung her hand in exasperation.  “Yes, ‘Draco.’  Or call him ‘Malfoy’ - I really don’t care.  The point is, he’s changed.  He spends most of his time reading in his room, but when he comes out he’s usually exceedingly polite.  Just last night he sat there watching a documentary with my dad on the telly, and that was after helping my mum clear the dinner dishes from the table.”

Harry’s eyes grew large, but he just nodded as he took it all in.  “So you think this plan with the Wizengamot is working?”

“Actually, I do.  And I intend to keep my end of the deal.  Grab the milk, would you?”  She gestured to the fridge and gathered up the dishes before heading back to the dining room.  “I want to finish school and work at the Ministry, Harry, and if I hope to obtain a position that actually _does_ _something meaningful_ , I can’t be making enemies of the Wizengamot - at least not yet.”

“They’d hardly consider you an enemy, Hermione.”  

She scoffed as she poured milk into the glasses, and Harry lowered himself into one of the dining room chairs.  

“Why are you really here, Harry?”

“I told you.  I want to see how you’re doing.”  He accepted his glass, immediately averting his gaze to peer into the back yard.  Quietly he stated, “Ron is really struggling.”

Hermione closed her eyes and drew a deep breath through her nose.  “I’m not surprised.”

“He didn’t even show up at the Ministry today.”

“Harry, please don’t.”  She yanked out a chair and dropped into it, crossing her arms on the tabletop and lowering her forehead down to nest in them.  “This is hard enough.  I know that he’s a mess, but I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m not saying you should.”  

She raised her head at that.  “What?”

He brought his gaze straight to hers.  “What do you want, Hermione?” he repeated.

“I...” she stammered.  

“Because you know what Ron’s going to do.  His anger’s already burnt off, and he’s moving into self-pity, which means that soon he’ll want to patch things up.”

“I know.”

“Is that what you want?”

She sat all the way upright and scrubbed her hands across her face.  “I don’t know, Harry.  I love Ron, and I’m truly worried about him.  I’ve thought a lot about it, and everything that he said to me during our last fight was true.”  A sad shudder passed through her.  “He was right, even if I didn’t want to hear it.”

Harry remained quiet, but Hermione could feel his eyes piercing into her skin as he watched her.  She swallowed and continued.  “But to be honest, despite all that, I really think that I’m done.”  She’d spent the last couple of days weighing it all, and to her surprise a small wave of relief washed over her at saying the words aloud.  “This mad cycle isn’t good for either of us.”

A look of satisfaction crossed over Harry’s face.  “Okay.”

Hermione’s eyebrows popped up.  “Okay?  I figured you’d be trying to keep us together.”

“Have you forgotten that I’ve been there through the Yule Ball, and the Slug Club, and especially all of those months last winter?  Look, Hermione. I care about you both and always will.  And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad when you _finally_ hooked up.  But that’s only because I thought you’d both get over all the drama at last.  But the two of you are insufferable!  The fighting, the jealousy, the constant frustration with each other.  And now that you’ve been together, it’s apparent that you’re on different trajectories.”

Hermione bit her lip, running her finger along the rim of her milk glass.

Just then, a thudding came from the stairs, and Harry launched to his feet, his wand instantly raised.  Hermione watched as Draco crossed through the sitting room, blond locks still damp.  His eyes grew wide when he noticed Harry’s presence.

“Potter.”  He nodded hesitantly.

“Malfoy.”

Hermione sighed.  “Do you want a cookie, Draco?”

The blond eyebrows went impossibly higher as a small smirk tugged at the corner of Draco’s mouth.  “That depends.  Are they as, uh, _crispy_ as the cod you cooked last night?”

She rolled her eyes as Harry eased back into his seat.  “Ha ha.  That cod would have been perfect- thank you very much - had there not been _someone_ distracting me with incessant questions about air conditioners and motorbikes.  And no, they’re not.  These cookies are actually elf-made.”

“From one of your admirers, no doubt,” Draco retorted blandly.  He sauntered into the dining room and pulled out the chair next to Hermione’s, reaching his arm in front of her to snag a cookie from the folds of the red fabric.  “And don’t blame me for last night.  We both know you were distracted by something other than my _completely_ natural questions.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, and she heard Draco clear his throat beside her.  “What are you doing here, Potter?” he asked, his face unreadable.

“Having an overdue visit with my best friend,” Harry responded.  He casually dunked his cookie in his milk, but Hermione noticed that his eyes never left Draco’s.

“Talking about the weather, are you?  Music?  Sports?”  The words were said flippantly, but Hermione noted a definite undercurrent of something more.  Was it anger?  Protectiveness?  Draco snagged Hermione’s glass of milk and dunked his cookie in a perfect imitation of Harry.

Harry’s eyebrows scrunched slightly, his gaze following Draco’s movements.  “Fortunately, Hermione and I are beyond such small talk,” her friend remarked, turning to face her.  “Just let me know what I can do, okay?”

She nodded.  “I should talk to him.”

“He’ll be home soon.”

She smiled sadly, and then pushed back her chair.  “I’m going to go get dressed.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco watched Hermione leave the room, his frown deepening.  As soon as he was certain she was upstairs, he turned to Potter and growled, “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t answer to you, Malfoy.”

“Do you realise how miserable she’s been this week?  How often she’s locked herself in her room crying?”

Potter’s eyes sharpened.  “I know Hermione far better than you, Malfoy.  I can well imagine.”

“That arsehole friend of yours broke her apart.  I don’t see how you or anyone with half a fucking brain can think that he deserves her.”

Draco expected Potter to get ruffled, but to his credit, the Boy Wonder just stared at him curiously.  “You seem surprisingly concerned about her.”

Draco shifted, his nose lifting into a sneer.  “Hardly.  But I am inherently opposed to idiocy, and somehow when he’s around, her ability to engage in rational thought drastically diminishes.  It’s like his stupidity is contagious.”  He picked at the edge of his cookie, noting Potter’s piercing eyes and pursed lips.

“Malfoy, we both know that Hermione doesn’t have an ounce of stupidity in her.  She gets passionate and emotional sometimes, but it’s because she would do _anything_ for those she cares about.  Some people would consider that _loyalty_ , not idiocy.”

“It’s idiocy to pine after a fucking inebriated prick who storms in with selfish demands, bellowing and breaking the door.”

Potter’s expression hardened.  “And what about pandering to cruel, power-mongering supremacists because of familial ties?  Is that loyalty or idiocy?"

A cold chill ran through Draco at the below-the-belt comment.  He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, his voice a tight whisper.  “I never said _I_ wasn’t an idiot.  We were talking about Granger.”

Potter raised an eyebrow meaningfully.  “Look, Malfoy.  I owe Ron and Hermione everything, and I want them to be happy, whether they’re together or not.  But let me give you a warning.  Stay out of it.  Hermione will not be pushed.  She may be loyal - hell, she forgave Ron for...for something I’d thought she’d never forgive - but don’t think that she’s weak.  She knows how to strike back when someone crosses her, especially about something that touches her emotionally.  You’ve been lucky that she’s generally ignored your antics in the past.  Other people have experienced far more creative and unpleasant retaliation, Ron included at times.”

The Golden Girl had a vindictive streak?  Draco was suddenly more intrigued.  “For example?”

Potter pressed his eyeglasses up with his index finger.  “I won’t betray her secrets.”

Draco dunked his cookie in the milk, his mind suddenly alive with possibilities.  What had Hermione done to the Weasel in the past, and more importantly, what would she do now?

 

~~~~~~~

 

Hermione stepped gingerly through her parents’ front door, shocked to discover one of the sitting room lamps blazing at 2 a.m.  Her eyes rapidly scanned the area and landed on Draco slumped in a wingback chair, his lips parted in sleep and an open book lying haphazardly on his lap.  She quietly shifted to turn off the light beside him.

“Ahhh!” Draco started, his head jerking from side to side as his eyes burst open.

Hermione lurched back, heart thudding.  “Sorry!  I didn’t mean to wake you!”

Draco’s chest rose and fell rapidly as his hands clutched the arms of the chair.  After a moment, he seemed to find his bearings, and his eyes locked on hers.  “Granger?” he croaked.  “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

Had he been waiting up for her?  No - he wouldn’t.  Her owl to her parents had made it clear that she’d be late and that they should go to bed.  He was probably just reading here because of his insomnia…

“Sorry,” she repeated in a whisper.  “Go back to sleep.”  

She leaned forward to try to click off the lamp once more, but Draco’s hand shot up and gently captured her forearm.  “No. Leave it,” he mumbled, his voice still thick with semi-consciousness.

Her brows furrowed, but she obliged, stepping back and slipping herself from his grip.  “Suit yourself.”  She turned and launched into her nightly routine of checking the locks and wards.

“Hermione, wait.”  

She looked back and arched her brow.

Draco remained silent for a moment, his lips pressed together.  “You okay?” he finally asked.

Hermione sucked in a breath.  Was _Draco Malfoy_ asking how she was doing?  Sure, he’d offered twice to go punch Ron, but Hermione was certain that he’d simply been looking forward to any reason to knock Ron down.  Draco’s face had been stony then, but now she thought she saw an odd softening around the edges of his eyes.  Merlin, she must be more exhausted than she’d thought.  She gave him a weary nod as she stashed her wand and headed toward the stairwell.

“Did you br-”  Draco coughed.  “That is, do you, uh, want to...talk about it?” he asked awkwardly.

She definitely did not, but there was something in his tone - Curiosity?  Defiance?  Concern?  - that made her turn to fully face him.  “Not particularly,” she said, crossing her arms over her abdomen.

An odd flash of disappointment glimmered in his eyes, and before she knew it, Hermione found herself asking, “What are you reading?”

Draco glanced down sheepishly at the book tipped over in his lap.  “Nothing.”

Curious now, Hermione inched closer.  She smirked in amusement when she saw her Shakespeare text.  “Reading the Bard, are you?”

“I, uh, saw it sitting out.”

“Which work are you reading?”

“It was marked at _Much Ado About Nothing_ , so I read the introduction and then started that one.”

Hermione smiled.  “Are you following it?  It’s pretty antiquated and metaphorical, not to mention muggle.”

“Yes,” he immediately snapped, offended.  “Unlike the dimwits you usually surround yourself with, I am perfectly capable of deriving meaning from figurative language.”

Hermione’s face fell and froze, in part due to the unexpected harshness of his tone, and in part due to her shock at his claim.  Ron was bright about a lot of things, but he would have never lasted through two pages of Shakespeare before wanting to chuck it in the bin.  But Ron wasn’t Malfoy, and suddenly her now-ex’s declaration about her snobbiness weighed her down.  She was doing it again - acting superior, underestimating others.  All at once, her heart felt like lead.  She nodded silently and twisted back toward the stairs.  

A heavy exhale cut through the air behind her.  As she stepped into the entrance hall, Malfoy’s words shot at her in a rush.  "I like it - the play, I mean - even if it is predictable.  At first I thought it might be a sappy romance like your mum reads, but some of the characters are actually interesting.”

Hermione paused, her hand on the banister.  The last couple of days had been wearying - and the last few hours especially so.  It seemed like Draco was offering her something, and a sliver of curiosity arose from his words, but she was simply too drained to engage.  She nodded her head and continued up the stairs, idly wondering if sleep would elude her and if Draco would be lying awake as well.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco thrust his hand through his hair as he watched her retreat up the stairs.  He clapped the book closed and clicked off the lamp, following a couple of minutes behind her.  He stared at the slit of light shining under her bedroom door, daring himself to knock before turning abruptly on his heel and marching into his own room.  It was all so preposterous; he didn’t know why he bloody well cared what _Granger_ did.  They’d spent almost half of their lives irritating the piss out of each other, and he’d treated her in ways that were unforgivable.

He tugged off his clothes and quickly yanked on his silk pyjamas, covering his Mark before he had to acknowledge it.  His eyes immediately shot to the trunk where the last few vials of Dreamless Sleep were nestled.  Part of him screamed to chug one down - forget his pathetic overtures and recover what was left of the night.  But what if Granger came for another dose?  He could picture her knocking at his door, puffy eyed and frowning while he lay unresponsive on his bed.  Resolved, he climbed on top of the covers and threaded his fingers behind his head, staring at the ceiling with the lights still blazing.  He hadn’t made many good choices in his life, but he would be available if she needed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Sign" by Ace of Base, 1993 (1994 UK)


	14. Therapy and Throwbacks

**Friday, July 10, 1998**

 

_Kneeling on the cold marble floor in submission, Draco swallowed hard, willing the bile to stay down.  His father hadn’t previously said much, but he somehow knew that this was going to hurt - possibly even worse than the Cruciatus that his aunt had 'tickled' him with as a demonstration of his worthiness._

_Draco clenched his teeth and curled his fists, taking a last glance around the dark room.  Cloaked bodies with masked faces surrounded him as the the Dark Lord’s maniacal chuckle drew closer.  Every fibre of Draco’s being longed to be anywhere else, but he quickly shoved the disloyal thought aside.  The Dark Lord wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if his legilimency encountered any betrayal in Draco’s thoughts._

_He surveyed the sinister silvery masks so like his father’s.  Did Lucius - locked up in Azkaban - know that Draco was doing this?  Would he be proud of his efforts to restore the Malfoy name?  His eyes found his mother standing along a far wall, face pale and stoic, with arms crossed over her abdomen.  Their gazes locked, and for a fleeting moment he thought he saw despair in her eyes.  But then it was gone as she quirked her lips in a tight smile and nodded at him, tacitly infusing him with the strength to endure.  Resolved, he turned up his forearm in offering, knowing that he was crossing a point of no return._

_“How eager you are, young Malfoy!” the Dark Lord cooed tauntingly, his serpentine face coming into view.  “But I would not expect less of a faithful servant.”  Draco kept silent, eyes downcast as the Dark Lord began circling, his bare feet padding against the floor.  “All of the uninitiated, it is time to take your leave.”_

_What?  Draco’s head popped up as his mother and a few servants were driven from the chamber.  His heart started to race.  “Ah, my dear Draco,” the Dark Lord murmured.  “I sense your anxiety.”  Draco dropped his gaze, fast.  “But you are no longer a boy, and you no longer belong to her.”  Draco swallowed as bile rose in his throat once again.  “To whom do you truly belong?”_

_The Dark Lord stopped in front of him, his musty smell further churning Draco’s stomach as slender, glacial fingers opened Draco’s palm and began smoothing over the expanse of skin on his forearm._

_“You.”  The word caught, and Draco cleared his throat.  He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys would always prove their might.  With conviction, the words forcefully burst past his lips.  “I belong to you, my Lord.”_

_Green flames rose up around them, the smoke making Draco lightheaded.  With deliberate slowness, the tip of the Dark Lord’s wand slid against his flesh.  “Good,” the Dark Lord purred.  “Let’s hope that you are not nearly as disappointing as your father.”  And with a staggering jolt, Draco convulsed in searing pain that curled through every nerve, bursting blood vessels and stealing his breath._

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Draco screamed, arching his back while trying desperately to suck air into his lungs.  His right hand shot to his left forearm, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing against the tormented skin as his heartbeat boomed in his ears.

“Draco,” a feminine voice said firmly above him.  “Draco.”

He tried to pry open his eyes, but a bright light permeated the space around him.  Was he dead?  He couldn’t look.  A slight touch brushed against his tricep, and Draco instinctively pulled away, curling into the fetal position as a terrified gasp escaped him.

“Draco, you’re safe.”  That voice was familiar.

His breathing stuttered then steadied, and Draco became aware of the soft mattress beneath him.  He peeled one eye open as the bed dipped slightly, startled to realise that Carol Granger was sitting beside him, her face twisted in concern.  His vision adjusted to the blazing overhead lights, taking in the white duvet hanging askew off the end of the bed.  He tucked his head, lingering fear mingling with embarrassment.  His skin prickled as Carol’s hand eased very gently against his back.

“You’re safe here, Draco.”

He nodded against his chest, wishing that she’d leave him alone.  It was just a stupid dream, and he’d had this particular one at least eighty times over.  It was his own fault for not taking the bloody potion.

No, it was Princess Granger’s fault he hadn’t taken the potion.  He’d done this for her - a stupid fucking noble gesture.  But Potter was right.  Any loyalty that Draco possessed was outstripped by bleeding naive idiocy, just as much now as when he’d gotten marked.  He tightened his arms around his knees.

“Can I get you anything?”  Carol’s hand continued to smooth over the silky fabric covering his back.

He shook his head once.

“Would you like me to turn off your light?”

Another shake.  No way in hell he was going back to sleep.

“Okay.  We’re here if you need anything...or, if you want to talk about it.”  She hesitated a moment, and at his lack of response she stood up.

Draco felt the bed shift under her movement, and suddenly he felt her absence far more than he’d anticipated.  As she pulled up his duvet, he realised that he’d probably woken her.  The clock beside the bed flashed 4:50 a.m.  

It was ridiculous that the Ministry wouldn’t even allow him to cast an innocuous silencing charm.  Had he roused the whole household?

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbled.

Carol turned back toward him with an incredibly sad smile.  “Don’t worry, Draco.  You didn’t.  We’ve been tending to Hermione.”

Draco untucked his head and loosened his arms slightly.  

Carol surveyed him.  “She’s had a rough night.  I’m actually surprised that her screaming didn’t wake _you_ up - but she’s sleeping deeply on the sofa right now.  You haven’t disturbed anyone.”  She momentarily chewed her lip the same way that he’d seen Hermione nibble hers.  “Well, get some rest.”  She walked to the door, and closed it gently behind her.

A moment later, Draco heard Mr. Granger’s loud whisper in the corridor.  “He all right?  God, what a pair they make.”

“I know,” Carol responded.  “Thank goodness they start therapy today.  Those screams...I can’t even imagine what they’re dreaming about.”

“Odd, isn’t it, that they’ve both slept soundly the last few nights, and then tonight they both have problems.”

Draco rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes.  He listened as one of them went back upstairs while the other went down to the ground floor.  With a turn of his head, his gaze landed on his trunk, knowing that only a few vials of almost-expired potion remained.   _No_ , he thought, _not odd at all_.  He tossed off the duvet and stepped out of bed.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco sat in the bland waiting room, staring at the pastel seascapes hanging on the walls and the large potted plants near the window.  No one had warned him that this would be so _boring_.

Beside him, Mr Granger, the only other occupant of the room, flipped through papers that he’d removed from a worn leather briefcase.  The older man cleared his throat, and Draco glanced over to find him pointedly staring at Draco’s fingers tapping out a quick staccato against the wooden arms of his chair.

“You nervous?”

Draco shot the man a look that he hoped was both incredulous and haughty before shaking his head and averting his eyes back to the paintings.

“It’s going to be all right.  Maybe next time you should bring a book while you wait.”

Draco spun his head back around.  “Next time?”

Mr Granger’s eyebrows lifted.  “Uh, yes.  Therapy takes time, Draco.  It’s not like Dr Davies is going to cast a spell on you and suddenly everything will be better.”

Draco huffed through his nose.  He didn’t need to be reminded that he’d come here to see a fucking half-blood _squib_.  He didn’t see how this woman could possibly understand his problems, regardless of her muggle credentials.

“Give therapy a chance, Draco.  What have you got to lose?”

Uh, his sanity?  His reputation?  His pride?  He swallowed.  Those were gone already.  If he were being honest, he was only here because Carol wanted him to go.  Deep down, a vibrating voice much like Severus Snape’s kept reminding him that he was a failure - a pathetic coward who couldn’t succeed on either side of the war.  He deserved to live with his demons.

A clicking sound came from the wooden door opposite the entrance, and a moment later Hermione emerged from the office with pink, swollen eyes and a tissue clutched in her right hand.  Mr Granger launched immediately to his feet, dropping his papers on the glass-topped coffee table in the waiting area.  “You okay, Chickpea?”

Hermione nodded and moved silently toward the chairs while a petite, middle-aged woman with olive skin and a dark bob stood in the doorway.  “Dr Granger,” the woman began.  “Hermione’s of age, but she thought you’d want to know some of our discussion.  We talked about meeting twice a week to work through some issues, and we also discussed some sleep techniques.  For now, Hermione and I have agreed to hold off on prescription medication - including potions, but I’m encouraging her to try melatonin supplements and to get more exercise.”

Draco stared at Hermione’s mask-like face, her eyes staring blankly out the window as she settled in the chair on the opposite side of her father.  Draco’d had a feeling that therapy was going to be sodding awful, and now Hermione’s face confirmed it.  He shifted his eyes to the woman, who was looking at him expectantly, a slight smile on her face.

“Mr Malfoy?  Please come in.”

 

~~~~~~

 

The gentle scent of lavender wafted over Draco as he looked around the small office, taking in the thick bookshelves, the modest desk pushed against a wall, and a jungle of plants.  There were a couple of chairs, a short sofa adorned with fringed pillows, a soft rug, and a strange coffee-coloured cushiony thing resting beside a small table with a lamp and a box of tissues.  Any place that provided tissues so prominently could _not_ be good.

“Please, Mr Malfoy, take a seat wherever you’d like.”

Draco inched past the big brown thing, eyeing it sceptically before settling in an armchair.

Dr Davies chuckled.  “I take it you haven’t seen a beanbag seat before?  Some people quite enjoy them.”

Draco scrunched his nose up.  

“Mr Malfoy, I’m Dr Davies, but you may call me Lynne.”  She turned her wheeled desk chair in his direction and crossed her feet at the ankles.  Draco couldn’t help but notice that she had decent calves for a woman her age.  “May I call you Draco?”

He shrugged.

“You are a pureblood, Draco, correct?”

He leveled a glare at her, sensing a trap.

“I ask because most purebloods I know are not familiar with therapy treatment.  It’s brave of you to try something foreign.”  There was a pause as she tilted her head slightly and watched him.

“It’s not like I’ve got a choice,” Draco finally mumbled.

“No?”

Draco huffed.  “I thought even _squibs_ read the _Daily Prophet_.”

Dr Davies’s eyes widened momentarily, but she otherwise seemed unfazed.  “I admit that I seldom read the _Prophet_ , but I do know about your sentence, if that’s what you’re referring to.  It must be difficult having your personal and family affairs under such public scrutiny.”

Draco huffed again and averted his gaze to the nearest bookshelf.  A tiny bubble of emotion flittered around his stomach at the thought of his family’s humiliation.

After another moment of silence, Dr Davies continued.  “I imagine that it’s been quite the adjustment living without magic as well.”

Draco swallowed as he looked at the book titles lining the shelf.  His hands gripped the arms of his chair as his right knee began bouncing.

“Draco,” the woman said after a full minute of silence.  “I know that it’s not your choice to live without magic.  But for virtually everything else in your life, you have choices.  They may not always be options that you’d like, but you _do_ have the power to choose your actions and reactions.”

“I know that!” Draco snapped, his hands darting to his thighs in an attempt to subdue his legs.  He barely registered his fingernails biting into his own flesh.

The insufferable woman paused briefly before continuing calmly.  “And that includes whether or not you’d like to engage in therapy.  You’re here because people are concerned about you, Draco - witches and muggles alike.  But it is your choice.  I know some techniques that can help you heal, if and when you are ready to try.”

Draco blinked, then shifted his gaze from the bookshelf to the wooden door.  It would be so easy to stand up and stalk out - he wasn’t required to be here.  But immediately, faces drifted across his mind’s eye: Mr. Granger, confused and sceptical about Draco’s unwillingness to participate; Carol Granger, tired and worried, with an inevitable determination to continue nagging him about it; his mother, disheartened that he’d thrown away an opportunity to mend, even if it was with a squib; and then of course Hermione. Her face would be expressionless, but her eyes would be alive, and he knew that he’d torment himself wondering what she was thinking.  Would she be disgruntled that he’d inconvenienced her family and then seemed unappreciative?  Would she be smug, suspecting all along that he wouldn’t be able to handle a muggle treatment?  Or would she be completely indifferent?  With a strange sense of certainty, he realised that he didn’t want to find out.  He'd spent _years_ prodding at Hermione to specifically forestall her smugness and indifference towards him.  

He brought his gaze back to Dr Davies, who was sitting patiently with her elbows resting on the armrests of her rolling chair.  Draco leveled her a curt nod.  

A small smile curled at the corner of her mouth.  “Excellent.  I’d like to learn more about your hopes for our time together, Draco, and I can also tell you about some therapy options given some of the symptoms and concerns you’ve already expressed on your paperwork.  For people who’ve experienced terrifying trauma like you, I’ve found a combination of cognitive behavioral therapy and exposure therapy to work well.”

Draco shot her a cynical look.  “Trauma like mine? Get many Death Eaters in here, do you?”

Dr Davies tilted her head.  “Death Eaters specifically, no, but wizard or muggle, post traumatic stress can be incredibly debilitating.  You needn’t be alone.  I’ve worked with war veterans and refugees with gruesome pasts, and they’ve had many of your same concerns.”

Draco pursed his lips.  Dr Davies’s words made sense, he supposed.  From what he’d seen in Dr Granger’s newspapers and on the telly, it didn’t seem that muggles were immune to danger and fear.  He inhaled deeply.  “Fine,” he declared flatly.  “How does this supposedly work, then?”

 

~~~~~~~

 

**Wednesday, July 15, 1998**

 

Hermione flicked her finger and thumb, discarding her dental floss in the bin before scooping up a wide-toothed sandalwood comb.  She tugged it through her hair, scowling at her image in the bathroom mirror as it got caught in the thick locks.

“You done monopolizing the bathroom, Granger?  Oh, lovely,” Draco taunted.

From the corner of her eye, Hermione watched him cross his arms and lean against the doorframe.  “Bugger off, Draco.”  She yanked harder, and the comb broke through, ripping out several hairs in the process.

“Merlin, Granger.  They make detangling potion, you know.”

As she dug the comb in again, she grabbed an empty jar of Sleakeazy’s with her left hand and chucked it at him.  It was a wild toss, but he snagged it from the air with the smooth ease of a seasoned quidditch player.  He flipped the container over in his hands.

“So get more.  It’s not like you’re under house arrest, and you _obviously_ need it.”

She _had_ considered it - especially since she was out of owl treats, too - but the thought of going to Diagon Alley made her stomach revolt.  It was difficult enough to think of the closed shops and damaged walkways that were relicts of the war, but she could barely imagine what her response would be to seeing the newly restored dome of Gringotts and a Fred-less Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.  Even worse was the absolute knowledge that she’d be a prized target for predatory gossipmongers.  Over the weekend, speculation about her break-up with Ron had graced the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ , and yesterday Ron’s public admission of their split had sent the Wizarding world buzzing.

The comb hit another knot, and she tipped her head to use both hands in an effort to pull it out.  "What do you care, Draco?  It's none of your business."  Maybe she ought to go to a local muggle salon to get a conditioning treatment. 

“Pardon me for not wanting _nasty_ hair all over my living space," he uttered.  "Is this because of the reporters?  They’re morons, Hermione, and the best way to stick it to Weasley is to go about your regular business without him.”

“Who said I want to ‘stick it’ to him?  I just don’t want to go to blasted Diagon Alley, all right?”  Her voice had gone shrill, and she yanked in vain on the tangled comb.  To her mortification, moisture started welling in her eyes.  “Just get out of here, Malfoy!”

The bastard remained in place, staring at her for another moment.  Then, to her utter alarm, he slid closer to stand directly behind her.  She whipped her head around to peer at him over her shoulder.  “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Just shut up, witch.”  He placed his fingertips above her ears and gently twisted her head back toward the mirror.  

Her eyes grew wide with disbelief as he shifted his hands to the lodged comb and started deftly tugging on the locks.  A tear escaped before she could blink it back, and she quickly swiped it away, fervently hoping that he was too focused on her cursed hair to notice.

“Some shops will deliver, you know.  I’m sure that if you owl them, they’d be happy to charge your Gringotts account.”

Hermione watched him in the mirror, her spine tingling with suspicion.  What was his game?  She wanted to see the expression in his eyes, but the frustrating git kept his attention on the knotted comb at the back of her head.

“I haven’t got an owl.”

“So get one.”

“Right, from Diagon Alley?  Kind of misses the point.”

“Then use someone else’s.  You’ve had no less than sixty owls drop off post here this morning already.”

She huffed out a breath, her hands flying to her hips.  “But those aren’t _mine_.  It’s just because of yesterday’s _stupid Prophet_ article.  I don’t even know most of the people who’ve sent me post.”

“So commandeer one of their owls.  I’m sure your admirers would be delighted.”

“Yeah, so word could get out that some lucky sod assisted me with stocking detangling potion?  That’d be brilliant,” she snarked.  “Owwwwww!”

The comb came out, dragging a clump of hair with it.  She reached back to snatch it, but Draco held it high in the air.  “Stop your whinging.”

“Oi!  Give me that!”

“So you can just get it stuck again?  Turn back around and button it.”

“Draco, I’m trying to get ready!”

“Yeah, me too, and you’re taking bloody ages in here.”

She narrowed her eyes and sized him up for the first time since he’d come into the bathroom.  His robes were fancier than usual, and with a jolt she recalled that he was planning to visit his mother today.  She skimmed up the sleek black fabric to his face, and found him looking pointedly at her.  Realising that he wasn’t about to relinquish the comb, she twisted back around with an exasperated sigh.

The tines scraped lightly against her scalp as he worked the comb into her hair again.  He stood nearer to her now - practically pressed against her back - and as she peeked at him in the mirror, she was shocked to discover that his head was bent so close that he was virtually breathing in her hair.  An odd tingle trickled through her, and she resolutely shook it off.

“You’re going to visit your mum?”

“Yes.  Shall I ask her about detangling charms?”

Hermione huffed.  “Are you joking?  No,” she stated implacably.  “I’m quite certain that Narcissa Malfoy is not interested in my haircare.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Granger.  She never had a daughter, and sometimes I think she wishes she had.”

Hermione chewed on that a moment.  Draco had said it so matter-of-factly, but she was certain there was more there.

Finally she admitted, “I’ve tried hair charms.  They don’t work.  Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil spent much of third of year treating my tresses as a science experiment.  I’m done with the stupid things.”

“Are you fucking serious?  You're writing something off because Brown and Patil couldn’t do it as young teenagers?  My mother grew up with sisters in a powerful pureblood family.  I’m sure that she’s more knowledgeable about magical haircare.”

At the mention of blood status, Hermione’s muscles instantly tensed.  The comb stilled, and Draco suddenly lifted his eyes to meet hers in the mirror.  She had thought that they were beyond this blood superiority rubbish, but apparently they weren’t.  And Draco’s comment was especially insulting given that Lavender and Parvati were in fact purebloods, too - just not from families cited on the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight.'  An indignant tirade was pushing to her lips, but Draco quickly raised his hands, his eyes pressing her to wait.

“Relax, Granger.  I just meant that she grew up with it is all.”

Hermione’s eyes darted to the comb pinched lightly between Draco’s thumb and forefinger, his other fingers loosely extended in supplication.  His silver Slytherin ring glimmered in the light from the bathroom sconces, and before she realised it, she was instinctively leaning away from him.

Draco frowned, his whole face hardening.  “For Salazar’s sake, I was just trying to help!  But you know what?  Forget I mentioned it.”  He tossed the comb hastily onto the bathroom countertop, where it skidded across the smooth surface and bounced off the wall.  He strode toward the doorway, and without looking back snarled, “Just, hurry up.  I’ve got somewhere better to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally outlined for the scene with Narcissa to be included in this chapter, but the length has expanded a bit out of control, so I finally decided to break the chapter into two. : )


	15. Perspicacity and Persuasion

**Wednesday, July 15, 1998**

 

Draco stumbled from the floo into the gallery of Malfoy Manor, coughing and nauseous as a result of the journey from Sutton to Scotland and back south to Wiltshire.  It was ridiculous that he couldn’t just go directly to the Manor from the Grangers’, but he supposed it was a small price to pay.  For the millionth time, he reminded himself that he could be trapped in a cell in Azkaban like his father.

“Master Draco!” a tiny house-elf greeted him.

Draco brushed soot from his robes, trying to remember this one’s name.  So many had been killed over the past year as a result of the Dark Lord’s displeasure that he’d admittedly stopped paying attention.

He huffed inwardly as he thought of how Hermione would respond to that.  She was so...so... _self-righteous_.  She expected people to be _paragons_ of humanity at all times.  Case in point - this morning.  So he had slipped up with the stupid pureblood comment?  A _normal_ witch would have understood that he was trying to be helpful.  But no, she’d been prepared to rage against him.  She’d suddenly looked at him with a level of disdain that he hadn’t seen in weeks, and it had stabbed him far more than he cared to consider.

Draco glanced now around the hollow corridor of the gallery, taking in the familiar portraits and still-lifes that had been hanging on these walls since before he was born.  The few ancestors that appeared alert were watching him with poorly concealed curiosity.  “Is my mother here?” he asked the elf.

“Mistress was just informed of you’s arrival, Master Draco.  She was not expecting yous yet.  She’s in her suite but should be here in a moment.  Shall Higgly be bringing yous anything, Master?”

“Yes, actually.”

Higgly’s face lit up as Draco fished out a small piece of parchment from his robes.  Draco pursed his lips as he momentarily reconsidered the contents of the list, before resignedly thrusting the note at the eager elf.  “I need you to gather these things for me - discreetly.  No need for my mother to know, you understand?”

One of the portraits coughed in obvious disapproval, but Draco resolutely ignored it.

Higgly closed his eyes, and Draco realised that he was using his magic to ‘read’ the contents of the parchment.  The elf’s face fell as his eyelids slowly opened.  “Higgly is very sorry, Master.  We’s don’t have these things.”

“Well, the last item might take time to find, but the rest you can get in Diagon Alley.”

Higgly looked at the ground and shifted his weight slightly, the parchment clutched tightly in his fingers.

Draco’s patience started to ebb.  “Go!  You know how to shop!  Just be back within the next few hours so that I can have those items in hand before I take my leave.”

The elf kept his gaze averted, the toes of one foot brushing against the floor awkwardly.  “Please forgives Higgly, Master,” he squeaked, automatically cowering and raising an arm to protect his head, “but there’s a shortage of Dreamless Sleep - evens in Diagon Alley.  Everyone wants it, and as Master knows, it takes about six months to brews a good result.”

No Dreamless Sleep?  Panic shot through Draco, rapidly morphing into anger.  He lowered his face to the elf.  “I don’t care how much it costs, understand?!  I don’t care if you have to go to some sketchy dealer in Knockturn.   _Someone_ will be willing to part with it for the right price.  Just get me some!”

“Draco!” his mother beamed, rushing down the corridor.  “Draco, you’re early!”

He pinned the elf with a stern look before the quailing creature disapparated.  Draco straightened and turned toward his mother just as her hands reached up to cup his cheeks.  Her red eyes were beginning to tear up.

“Oh, my darling!  Let me look at you.  I swear you’ve gotten taller.  And Merlin, you need a haircut.”

Draco forced himself to remain still as her fingers brushed against his hair.  He hoped that his cologne was covering the scent of the mandarin mist shampoo he’d filched from Hermione.

“Are they feeding you?  Are you sleeping?  You look well, even if your robes are a bit wrinkly.”  She slid her hands from his head down his arms, brushing at the wrinkles on his sleeves.  All at once, her brows furrowed.  “What’s this?”

Draco’s eyes widened as his mother pulled a long brown hair from the fabric.  She dangled it accusingly, her nose scrunched in disgust.

Damn Hermione and her ridiculous hair!  “That must, uh, be Granger’s.”  Draco brushed quickly at his robes, plastering a sneer onto his face.  “She leaves droppings from that rats’ nest everywhere.”

His mother frowned slightly.  Draco felt her eyes survey him carefully before she vanished the offending strand and linked their arms. “Let’s go to the conservatory, darling.  Are you hungry?  I’ve ordered all of your favourites for lunch.  Salazar, it’s been a whole month!  And only two floo calls in all that time.  Won’t the Headmistress give you more time to call?  And have you received any of my packages?  It seems like all of my owls have been turned away.”

For Merlin’s sake.  His normally subdued mother was suddenly very animated, firing out questions faster than an unrestrained snitch.  He stifled a grin, allowing the joy of seeing her to seep into him.  Elbows linked, he pulled her a bit closer, and she turned a brilliant smile on him.  Draco’s heart sank a little when he saw the dark circles under her eyes and the additional worry lines on her forehead.

“I haven’t received packages, but I’m fine, Mother.  The Grangers are...tolerable, as are things at Hogwarts.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, the lines of her face deepening as they whisked into a glass walled room full of vibrant green foliage and summer sunlight.  His mother guided him to sit beside her on the woven willow sofa and then snapped her fingers.

Another house-elf instantly appeared.  “Mistress?”

“Elf-made wine, Twinky.”

Draco sighed inwardly.  It was only late morning, but he’d been hoping for something a bit stronger.

The elf was gone and back in under five seconds, and his mother handed Draco a glass.  She took a sip of her own drink and then placed her glass on a table, her eyes never leaving him.  “I can’t believe they’re making you labour at Hogwarts after all that’s happened there.”

Draco shrugged.  There were admittedly parts of the castle that he avoided, but the work had not been too terrible.  At least it gave him something to focus on besides his thoughts.  “I’ve been mostly organising items in the library and classrooms.”

“And McGonagall?”

“I don’t see her much.  She’s rather busy preparing for school to reopen next month.  She _did_ say that she’ll allow me to audit classes.”  He rotated the stem of his wineglass in his fingers as a hollow chuckle emerged from his chest.  “She said that to her mind, completing my education would definitely count as service to the community.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed, and Draco knew that she was deliberating whether to be insulted or grateful.  “So, she’ll permit you to sit your N.E.W.T.s?”

“Well, no,” Draco hedged.  “I can’t sit the exams without my wand.  But she’ll let me study now so that I can choose to take the exams independently once the Ministry restores my magic.”

Narcissa Malfoy arched her brow in a manner so smoothly familiar that Draco almost smiled.  After a pregnant pause she regally stated, “Well, then, you must take advantage, Draco.  We can’t let these last horrid years in that place to have been in vain.  Plus...” she started.

Draco waited expectantly, and a small twinge of alarm laced through him as he watched his mother shift uncomfortably on the furniture.  “Plus, we don’t know what your prospects will be in the coming years.  It would serve us all well if you were to formally complete your schooling and demonstrate your brilliance.”

Draco furrowed his brow.  What was she getting at?  “Has something happened?”  Other than the fact that the Wizarding world had vilified them, of course.

She reached for her glass and took another sip of her wine.  And then another.  “It’s nothing to be concerned about, darling.  Things are just changing.”

“How so?”  Draco’s voice was hard.  He was not in the mood for evasive games.

His mother released a heavy sigh, and then waved her hand ethereally.  “Well, with your father’s required financial restitution, I’m afraid that your inheritance won’t be as substantial as it was.”

Draco scoffed.  Was that what she was worried about?  Draco would bet that his own account still had at least twice as many galleons as most of his Slytherin housemates’.

“And, well, you know that the Parkinsons withdrew from the betrothal as soon as your sentence was announced.”

Draco’s muscles tightened.  They had received the owl the day after his trial.  Truth be told, getting out of marrying Pansy was a boon, but Narcissa Malfoy had been hit hard by the rejection.  Pansy’s mother had been the most recent in a string of Narcissa’s childhood friends to turn her back on the Malfoy family, and while Draco didn’t give a fig about that old, pretentious hag, he knew that his mother was crumbling without a support network.

“I’ve been working on arrangements - better matches for you than being with _that_ fickle family - but nothing’s confirmed yet.  The Greengrasses have been a bit cagey, but I’m optimistic about a union with them.”

Draco’s eyes bulged.  His mother had been spending her time playing matchmaker?  Well _of course_  she’d been - What else had she to do?  For fuck’s sake; he didn’t want to think about _marrying_ anyone right now.  He couldn’t even sleep through the cursed night without drugging himself.

“Mother, don’t worry about the Parkinsons.  Or the Greengrasses, for that matter.  I’m not currently in a position to marry.”

She shot him a pitying look.  “I know, darling, but we’ll find someone worthy of you.  A lovely pureblood witch worthy of the Malfoy name - worthy of my only son.  If not the Greengrasses, maybe a French family...”

Draco carded his hand through his hair.  Damn, he sounded pathetic.  “Mother, please.  I’d rather just focus on school and my service for now.  There’ll be time for matchmaking later.”

She set her wineglass back down. “Have you heard of anyone else who’ll be returning to Hogwarts?”

Draco was fully aware that his mother hadn’t agreed to discard the marriage topic, but he was glad for the change of subject just the same.

“No.”  He hadn’t heard from any of his so-called friends since the battle in May.  “Have you?”

He had to admit that he was curious.  For the entire month of August, Hogwarts was opening up to former 5th and 7th years for intensive O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. preparation.  Exams were to take place immediately before the start of the new school year.  While some people like Granger might go back for an entire additional school year, he suspected that the majority of classmates who’d spent the past year at Hogwarts were eager to grab their N.E.W.T.s and go - that is, if they planned to return at all.

Narcissa shrugged.  “It sounded from Ruth like Gregory won’t go back.”

That wasn’t surprising, given that Greg Goyle’s father was still wanted by the Ministry.  Plus, the bloke had never been academically inclined - and especially not without Crabbe there.

Crabbe.  A wave of nausea-inducing melancholy dropped over Draco like a lead blanket.  Without sleep potions, he frequently dreamt of Crabbe hurtling into that fire.  He could still feel the scorching heat and hear the thunderous cracking of materials collapsing.  He could smell toxic smoke and burnt flesh -

“Pansy'll probably return,” his mother went on, interrupting his thoughts with her face pinched, “and likely Daphne.  I don’t know about poor Theodore.  I can’t imagine he’ll ever want to go back to that place, but I hope he’ll finish his education.  I’ve invited him over a few times, but he hasn’t replied.”

Narcissa Malfoy had always had a soft spot for Theo, whose mother had been a friend of hers up until her death when Theo was just a toddler.  Theo had been raised by his father, and from what Draco had heard, the stony old bastard had been among those crushed by debris during the Battle of Hogwarts.  Merlin only knew how Theo was coping.

“Have you heard from Father?” Draco asked, his thoughts spinning.

“Yes.  I visited last week.  He’s doing okay, considering.  Did you hear that Shacklebolt has submitted a proposal to the Wizengamot to get rid of the dementors?”

Draco raised an eyebrow in surprise, then snorted softly.  That sounded like something Hermione would do.

Narcissa pressed forward.  “And I’ve been owling your father regularly.  It’s quite remarkable,” she said, eyes suddenly homing in on Draco’s face, “that my owls can get through to _Azkaban_ but somehow can’t reach _you_.”  

Draco mulled that over.  It _was_ odd.  Sure, the Grangers had highly secure protective wards, but Hermione still received an absurd amount of post each day.  Why couldn’t his mother’s owls get through?  And why couldn’t they find him at Hogwarts?  A budding sense of injustice settled in Draco’s stomach.  Something was going on.

“Maybe I should take Talon with me,” Draco remarked about his family’s youngest eagle-owl.  “Perhaps if he can get from me to you, it will open the protections enough for you to send a message back.”

His mother nodded.  “Excellent idea, darling.  We can certainly try.”

“If that doesn’t work I’ll ask Granger.  She’s likely to have an idea, too.”

Draco felt his mother’s eyes bore into him again.  Slowly and flatly she stated, “Yes, she always was a _bright_ one.”

Draco froze, willing his face into an absolute mask.  His mother was obviously suspicious of something.

“Are the rumours true?” she queried.

“What rumours?”

“The headlines, darling.  About the break-up between her and the Weasley blood traitor.”

Her words made Draco’s muscles clench.  He nodded hesitantly.

“I realise that you live in her home and that you’ve had a long-time...fascination with her.”  She cupped Draco’s cheek and peered straight into his eyes, and suddenly he felt like an eight year old again.  “But mind your sentiments, darling.  Don’t underestimate your worth.  The Malfoy name still represents strength and superiority if we show people that it does.”

Draco’s thoughts careened wildly, and he fought to keep his exterior cool.  He couldn’t believe that he’d actually considered asking his mother about stupid hair detangling charms.  Hermione had been right.  Now he felt embarrassed to even mention the two squib therapy sessions that he’d had.

Fortunately, Twinky the elf arrived to announce that lunch was awaiting them in the gardens, and Draco was able to steer the conversation from rebounding mudbloods to fanged geraniums.

 

~~~~~~~

 

A few hours later, Draco was climbing to the Manor’s owlery when Higgly apparated in his path holding out a leather bag.

A small smile of relief slipped across Draco’s face.  “You got them?” he asked expectantly, snatching the bag and peering down into it.  His face fell.

“Partially, Master Draco.  Only five vials of the Dreamless Sleep.  Higgly is so sorry, Sir!  Higgly looked everywhere!  And these vials costed 40 galleons each…”

“I told you I don’t care about the money,” Draco growled, but even he had to admit that there was something going on when potions normally worth 3 galleons were going for 40.  Fuck.  Five vials was _nothing_.

Draco riffled through the bag and noticed that the second item from his list was there, ironically.  He brushed his thumb over the orange words popping across the smooth blue label.

“And the third item?” Draco inquired tightly.

“Higgly’s not located it yet, Master, but Higgly is continuing to look.”  The elf bowed his head low, hands clasped behind his back.

Draco really hadn’t expected him to find that particular item so quickly.  Given the earlier conversation with his mother, he almost told the creature to forget it, but something inside Draco drove him to continue the search, even if it took the house-elf weeks.  He told himself that it was so Higgly wouldn’t feel dismissed as a failure.

But the damn niggling sentiment in Draco knew differently.

“Right.  Keep looking, and let me know once you’ve obtained it.”

“Of course, Master!” Higgly murmured in relief, bringing his palms together in a gesture of gratitude.  “Higgly’s will not give up!”

Draco gave a quick nod, but his eyes were suddenly drawn to the elf’s wrists.  Those burns weren’t there before…

Suspicion seeped in.  There were very few reasons why a house-elf would engage in self harm…

“What are you hiding from me?” Draco suddenly snapped.

“Nothing, Master Draco!  Higgly’s not hiding nothing!”

Draco leveled the elf a hard stare.

“It’s...it’s just Higgly knows where there is more sleep potion, Master, but Higgly’s can’t take it.”

“Why?  Where?” Draco asked, astounded at how pathetically eager his own voice sounded.

The elf was practically bent to the ground in prostration.  “Higgly...Higgly lied before, Master,” he gulped.  “There’s is two more vials in Mistress’s room.  But she’s is needing them, Master!  And we is already trying to get her to save them for when it’s really bad!”

“When what’s bad?”

“Her night crying, Master.  About….about her…previous house-guests...and about missing Master Malfoy.”

Draco closed his eyes and drew in a long breath through his nose.  He should have realised.  He squeezed the leather fabric of the bag in his fingers as a wave of bitter anger washed over him.  His conscience clucked.  Resolved, he reached in and removed the blue-labelled jar, and then thrust the sack back at the elf.

“Master?”

“Add these five vials to her others.  And Higgly?”

“Yes, Master Draco?”

“Take care of her for me.  Please.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Sardine Bertie Bott’s bean,” Hermione stated clearly, and the gargoyle shifted to allow Hermione up to Minerva McGonagall’s office.  Just outside the oaken door, she took a deep breath.   _Remember Hermione, you’re appreciative of the opportunity and absolutely honored, but you simply must decline. You can’t protect your family if you’re Head Girl…_

She knocked lightly on the door, and it swung open to reveal the headmistress sitting at the claw-footed desk directly ahead, her quill scribbling busily.

“Hermione!  Come in.”

She stepped into the room, and her eyes immediately darted around the large circular space, instinctively scanning for hidden threats.  Her gaze was quickly drawn to Snape’s portrait peering at her with his dark brows arched.  Great.

“You wanted to see me, Headmistress?”

“Yes.  And please, Hermione.  School has not started. I’ve told you to call me Minerva.”

Hermione nodded and slid onto a straight-backed chair beside the desk, her hands folded primly in her lap.  

Minerva set down her quill and leaned back slightly in her chair.  “I wanted to speak with you about this coming year.”   _Here it comes…_   “You are planning to return for a full school year, correct?”

Hermione nodded, her interlaced fingers squeezing a bit tighter.  “Yes, I’d like to complete my education, officially that is.”

“And what about this coming month?  Have you considered sitting for any N.E.W.T.s this August?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed a bit.  Was the Head Girl required to be here in August as well?  “Actually, I’ve considered sitting the Ancient Runes exam, and possibly also Charms if Professor Flitwick is okay with that.  Do you recommend I wait til next spring?”

“No, no.  I think that’s an excellent plan.  I’m sure that with a little revision you’ll pass both of those N.E.W.T.s with flying colours.  What about Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

Hermione shifted a bit, her gaze automatically darting to Snape’s stoic face.  She cleared her throat.  “I, um, didn’t know that you were offering that in August, given last year’s, um, curriculum.”

Minerva drew a long breath.  “Well, I certainly wish that last year’s...curriculum, as you put it...had been different.”  She glared pointedly at Snape, whose statuesque face seemed completely unrepentant.  “And it would be ideal for students wishing to take the N.E.W.T. in DADA to have another full year. However, we must provide the opportunity for those 7th years who were here and who are eager to complete their studies this summer.”

Hermione nodded hesitantly, unsure of where this was going.  

“Given all you’ve experienced, do you feel prepared in DADA?”

“I…” Hermione began.  “I’m sure I’d benefit from another year.”

Snape’s portrait huffed.  “Modesty does not become you, Miss Granger,” he drawled.

Hermione’s brows shot together.  Did he think she could pass the exam?  Was that a compliment disguised as an insult...or just an insult?  Merlin, Slytherin communication could turn a person mental.

“Let me get to the point, Hermione,” Minerva cut in.  “I’ve asked you to come because I know what a bright, studious, dedicated young woman you are.  You are a proven leader of your peers…”

_Finally.  Okay, Hermione, remember your speech.  You’re honored to be offered Head Girl…_

“...and I’d like you to consider leading this summer’s O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. preparation courses for Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open.  “I...but...but I haven’t even taken that exam myself!  And that was my worst O.W.L.!  I only got Exceeds Expectations!”

“Insufferable,” she heard Snape mutter.  

She took a deep breath.  More calmly, she stated, “I don’t even know what 7th years usually cover.”  

Minerva slid a piece of parchment across the desk at her - a list.  “Hermione, you’ve done these things.  You have the practical experience, and I know you have the theoretical knowledge.”  She sighed.  “I realise it’s not ideal, but we need help.  The Auror Office has snagged up everyone who might potentially teach DADA, and I’m still trying to fill three staff positions.   Think of it as leading a study group.  It would only be for one month, and I’m sure that I can get the Board of Governors to agree to pay you for your time.”

Hermione felt Snape looking at her more intensely now, almost _daring_ her to take _his_ place.  She pinched her lips and pulled the list closer.  Patronuses, advanced shields, non-verbal spells…  She had done everything on this list, except…

“Beginning occlumency?  I’ve never actually learned how to be an Occlumens.”

“But you know how it works theoretically, correct?” Minerva asked.  “That should be enough for the exam.”  She looked at Snape.  “Wouldn’t you agree, Severus?”

“Hmmm,” he grumbled noncommittally.  “While I don’t dispute that Miss Granger has earned her rightful place as Gryffindor’s top know-it-all, might I suggest that you partner her with someone who balances out her weaknesses?”

Indignation instantly shot through Hermione.  She glanced at Minerva and noticed that she, too, was scowling at Snape on her behalf.

“Such as?” the Headmistress snapped.  “Are you volunteering your services, Severus?”

“I was actually thinking of Draco,” he drawled.  “For a novice, he’s become quite skilled in Occlumency, and he bested Miss Granger on their DADA O.W.L.s.”  The smug arsehole actually smirked.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and shifted in her chair.  “Draco doesn’t currently have a wand or a magical core.  How do you propose he lead a N.E.W.T.-level group?”

“Go back to your research, Miss Granger.  Occlumency is a skill of the mind.  A wand can help focus the powers, but at its root Occlumency is based on discipline and willpower.”

He stared directly at her, and Hermione instinctively straightened her spine and lifted her chin.  This is _not_ how she’d expected this meeting to go. She was supposed to be humbly declining a position as Head Girl…

Snape snorted from his portrait.  “Humble is _not_ the word to describe you or your famous friends.”

Hermione felt her face flush.  Was he using legilimency on her from a _portrait_?  Without her even knowing it?  Merlin.  This was all the more reason for her to refuse.

“Apparently,” Snape continued, “you don’t realise what a special opportunity you’re being offered.  But then again, you’ve not had Slytherin house to hone your sense of advantage.  Just blind Gryffindor bravery - and yet here you are, shying away from a challenge.  Pity.  So...disappointing,” he said flatly.

“Severus…” Minerva warned, but fire was already building in Hermione’s chest.  

“I didn’t say I couldn’t - or wouldn’t - do it,” Hermione spat.  “It was just a surprise, is all.”

Minerva’s expression brightened.  “So you’ll lead August’s DADA sessions?”

“Yes,” she replied warily.  

“Excellent!” the Headmistress declared, standing up to effectively end the meeting.  "Thank you, Hermione.  I'll be in touch with more information."

Hermione got to her feet, too.  She was going to have to hit the library.

Snape eyed her casually.  “Draco shall provide assistance.  And I shall, too, if necessary.  You’ll be well supported and will _still_ _get all the glory_.  A far better arrangement than, say, Head Girl, wouldn't you agree?”  His lip quirked up.

Hermione’s eyes shrank to slits.  Assistance.  From two former Death Eaters.  And the distressing thing was, evidently she needed it.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Hermione lugged herself up the stairs of her parents’ home, still trying to reconcile what she’d agreed to do.  She, as a muggleborn who had dropped out of school, would be leading a group of traumatised peers who had been indoctrinated with the belief that they were superior to her - and in her lowest scoring subject!  What the hell was she thinking?  Ron had been right; when it came to McGonagall, for some reason Hermione never said 'no.'  And Snape's goading had only pushed her further.  Should she actually do this?

She tapped on Draco’s door, the light impact pushing it open.  He was gone, but the dressy robes he’d worn to his mother’s were sprawled across his bed.  Sitting on the desk near the window, a caged eagle owl squawked feistily.  Oh goody.  Her parents would love that.

She crossed the corridor to the bathroom, eager to splash some water in her face, but as she approached the washbasin, a small container caught her eye.  She picked it up, brows scrunching together.  Her eyes took in the red ribbon encircling the lid and the familiar orange lettering across the blue product label.  A new jar of Sleekeazy’s.  

A brief note read:   _ **Since you obviously need it. - D**_

Her heartbeat picked up, and she was glad that Draco wasn't there to see the tiny, involuntary grin that tugged across her face.


	16. Blossom and Blunder

**Thursday, July 16, 1998**

 

A loud yawn cut through the air, and Hermione glanced up from the open books sprawled across the dining room table to where her parents were snuggled on the sofa.  For the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to wistfully envy their closeness.  How many times had she imagined herself tucked up against Ron like that, peacefully passing an evening together listening to music or watching mindless rubbish on the telly?

Her dad’s arm suddenly lifted from behind her mum’s back, his stiff muscles stretching straight into the air.  “Ready for bed, love?” he mumbled.  “I’m knackered.”

Her mother leaned forward and nodded as her dad aimed the remote to blacken the television screen.  They stood in tandem and turned in Hermione’s direction.

“Still working, eh, Chickpea?”

Her mum strolled closer, placing her hand on Hermione’s shoulder.  “Look at you preparing for your first paid position.  I’m so proud of you, darling.”

Hermione gave a slight smile, warming with the praise, when she heard Draco coming down the stairs.   _Purebloods wouldn’t be proud to have working daughters_.

 _What?_   She caught herself.  Why should she care about the antiquated, misogynistic opinions of certain sectors of the magical world?  What mattered was that her parents were pleased, and she was, too.  She had always imagined a future in which she held an important position in society, and after spending some time reflecting, she recognized that she’d made an advantageous choice in accepting Professor McGonagall’s proposal.

“Thanks, Mum.”

“Well, don’t work too hard,” her dad chided lightly, his eyes surveying her notepad and books.  “You’re not getting paid yet.”  He winked, but then his playful smile became a tad more serious.  “You should still enjoy a bit of summer before you get too tied to Hogwarts again.”

Hermione just nodded, rotating her muggle pen in her fingers.  He didn’t understand, but she couldn’t really expect him to.  Like it or not, she’d become a legend.  She was in the papers - frequently.  She had an Order of Merlin.  Even that cow Rita Skeeter was threatening to write a book about her.  She was _the_   _Hermione Granger_ , poised to burst barriers and fight for social justice, and she could not be caught doing a half-assed job.

“All right.  We’re headed to bed, but I want to make certain that you’re still okay with me not taking you to Dr Davies’s office tomorrow.”

Hermione had to resist the urge to roll her eyes.  “Yes, Dad.  I told you.  You can’t be expected to miss so much work for our appointments.  I’m perfectly capable of apparating us there and back.”

Her dad pursed his lips, but eventually nodded.  Hermione knew that the use of magic still bothered him, but this was really the most reasonable option.  Twice a week therapy for two people added to a lot of time, especially with the hour commute each way.

“Okay then, if you’re sure...G’night, Chickpea.”  He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“Goodnight, darling,” her mum echoed.  “Good night, Draco.”  Hermione watched as Carol Granger swept by the armchair he’d settled into and patted him on the shoulder before drifting to the stairs.

As her parents made their way to the next floor, Hermione could feel Draco’s eyes on her.

“What?” she huffed.

“You’re going to apparate us?”

She felt her shoulders tighten and responded as matter-of-factly as possible.  “Yes.”  Hermione returned her gaze to her books, but she could feel Draco’s continued stare, and it shot tingles up her spine.

“What _is_ it?,” she finally grunted.  “You’ve apparated before, haven’t you?”  It suddenly occurred to her that, like Harry, Draco had been too young for apparition lessons in 6th year.  But surely he had learned to apparate since then.  Besides, she’d be the one doing the work.

“Of course.  Don’t be daft, Granger,” he sneered.

Her eyes shot directly to his with what she hoped was a feisty scowl.  “Then what’s your problem?”

He remained silent another moment, but then finally asked, “Have you ever splinched anybody?”

Had not the image of a pale, injured Ron immediately surfaced, she would have surely been offended by Draco’s question.  She struggled to keep her expression flat.

He must have read something in her face or body language, because suddenly his eyes grew wide.  “Flying fuck.  You _have_!” he declared accusingly, leaning forward in his chair.

Hermione sucked in a breath, preparing to rail against him defensively, but she suddenly realised that he looked more alarmed than smug.  After a moment’s hesitation, she decided to respond with honesty.

“Only once.  And there were extenuating circumstances.  I’ve side-along apparated other people upwards of eighty times without issue.”

“Extenuating circumstances?” he prodded incredulously, one brow raised.

Hermione squeezed her pen and released a heavy sigh.  “Yaxley grabbed onto me while we were disapparating.  We had to change location part-way through, and...and Ron got splinched.”

Hermione watched Draco’s face, expecting a sadistic smile to appear at Ron’s misfortune, but to her surprise, his features held as firm and pale as chiseled stone, the only reaction a slight flaring of his eyes.

“Why?” she demanded.

“Why what?”

“Why are you asking?  You don’t trust me?”

Draco averted his eyes to the floo.  A bubble of indignant anger rose in Hermione’s throat, but it quickly morphed to confusion when Draco bent forward and started rolling up the hem of his trouser leg.  An uncomfortable sense of foreboding tumbled around Hermione’s stomach, and she bolted up from her dining room chair.  Draco was frowning silently, gesturing to his exposed skin.

Hermione’s curiosity got the better of her.  With adrenaline rising, she cautiously stepped into the sitting room to take a closer look.  Her eyebrows lifted at the faint scar marring his ankle.  “You splinched off your foot?” she asked, mildly embarrassed at the amazement in her tone.

“I didn’t do it intentionally!” he spat.

Hermione slowly reached out a hand toward the wound, but at Draco’s withdrawal she snapped it back, instead wiping her palm against her thigh.  “Does it still hurt?”

“No,” he mumbled, rolling the fabric back down, “but I can’t say I enjoy apparition.”

“What happened?”

Draco peered at her face and then averted his eyes again.  He shrugged.  “The Dark Lord was coming.  We could feel that he was...angry.  I was in a hurry trying to leave the first floor before he arrived.”

Hermione snorted, certain _that_ was an understatement.

He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.  “It was a common occurrence for all of us.  I’ve seen my share of splinching.”

“Well, it looks well-healed.  How long ago was it?”

Draco shrugged again, eyes still shut.  Hermione stepped back and dropped onto the sofa.  After a moment he mumbled, “Christmas Eve.”

Hermione’s eyes bulged, her gut instantly roiling.  “I, uh, can guess why he was angry.”  Memories of Godric’s Hollow assailed her: the musty, rotting scent of Bathilda Bagshot, the darkness, the cold, Nagini’s horrid fangs, and the fear...the absolute fear that it was the end for her and Harry.  Her heart started hammering in her chest.

“Yeah.  Six people died on our carpet that night.  I won’t tell you what he vowed to do to you and Potter.”

Hermione shook her head and swallowed, unsure of how to respond.  At length she tried, “If it’s any consolation, I side-along apparated Harry in mid-air that night.  Voldemort was on our heels.  No splinching.”  Her blond companion flinched at the V-word, but otherwise remained lost in his thoughts.  “And I always keep dittany in my bag, if that makes you feel better.”

He didn’t respond.  They sat for ages in silence, trapped in their own memories.  By the time Hermione was ready to return to her books, Draco uttered, “If it’s any consolation to _you_ , I’m glad you and Potter got away.”

Hermione blinked.  She watched Draco scrub a palm over his face before shoving the slightly trembling hand through his hair.  “Well, hell.  Now I definitely won’t get any sleep tonight.”

Hermione sighed, her thoughts tumbling.  “Me, either.”  She pulled a throw pillow onto her lap and leaned her head against the back of the sofa.

She wasn’t sure how long they sat that way, but at some point Draco said, “McGonagall called me to her office today.”

Hermione sat up straighter and looked at him, squeezing the pillow tighter against her chest.  She felt a brow tick up.  “Oh?”

“Professor Snape wanted to talk with me.  Said you needed my help.”  For the first time that evening, the faint hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  “Rather funny you didn’t mention that last night when you told your parents about the position.”

“Hmph,” Hermione huffed noncommittally.  Draco’s grin grew, and all of a sudden she couldn’t take her eyes off of it.  She’d seen him smirk and scowl, even laugh in adolescent cruelty, but this smile completely lacked hostility.  His lips parted slightly, revealing a sliver of bright teeth.  He looked a bit...healthier.  Happier.  Sexier.

She spun her face away.  

“Don’t worry,” he murmured.  “Merlin knows Princess Hermione will still be the boss...”

She swung her head back, eyes narrowed, to find him grinning even wider.  

“...Even though _I_ got the better O.W.L., of course.”

She hurtled the pillow at him, and he actually let loose a small chuckle.  The sound tickled something in her chest, and she propelled herself to her feet, suddenly needing a bit of space.  “You’re such a git.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She shuffled around the ground floor with her wand in hand, doing her nightly check of the wards, conscious that his eyes were following her every movement.  Her skin heated, and she kept her chin up but refused to look his way.  Good Godric, she hoped that Draco wasn’t a Legilimens.

She circled back to the dining room table and started piling up her materials.

“I’m still reading that Shakespeare book,” Draco said hastily.

“Is that so?” Hermione responded casually, sliding her hands against the edges of her books to perfectly align them.

“Yes.  I’m reading _King John_ now, but I liked that _Much Ado_ one better.”

She really ought to ignore him and go upstairs to bed, but before she knew it, her curiosity pushed words past her lips.  “Really?  Why?”  She glanced over in time to see Draco shrug.

“I like Benedick’s snarkiness.”

Hermione snorted.  “You would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco demanded.

“Nothing.”  Hermione shook her head.  “Just, I’m not surprised that you’d be drawn to his puerile negativity.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly.  “And you’re any better?” he challenged.  “Don’t tell me that you read it for the pathetically lovelorn Claudio.  I’d bet twenty galleons that you like Beatrice.”

Hermione picked at her fingernails.  She surreptitiously watched as Draco stood up and crossed the room to turn on another light before sinking back into the wingback chair.  He gestured at the adjacent sofa, and Hermione’s feet started walking over of their own accord.  It’s not like she’d be able to sleep anyways.  She sat once again against the cushions, curling her legs under her and pulling a lightweight beige throw over her body.  “Sure, I enjoy Beatrice.  She pushes against convention and speaks her mind.”

“Like you,” Draco said, his fist curled against his chin.

A strange ripple shot down her spine at his quasi-compliment, and her lip involuntarily quirked up.

“You’re also alike in your wit and in your hunger for conflict.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Hermione retorted, sitting up straight.  “I haven’t got a _hunger_ for _conflict_!”  

He lifted a brow, obviously unconvinced, the slightest hint of amusement lurking in his expression.

What?!  She didn't!  Well, perhaps she used to...  In the past she’d admittedly been bold about rocking the boat when it needed rocking, and even her relationship with Ron over the years had been turbulent.  But damn it, those interactions had made her _feel_ something.  They sparked her fire - brought her to life.  But the war had snuffed her fire down to embers, and nowadays she had enough issues without seeking out more to stir up.

She peered challengingly into his eyes, the irises glinting like silver.  For a fleeting moment, she wondered if Draco still saw the spark of something within her.

Time stalled, her heartbeat quickening under his silent gaze.  Eventually, the corners of his mouth slid up.  “Granger, I didn’t think that you could be that self-delusional, but whatever.  All of Wizarding Britain knows that you chase conflict.  And even now you're arguing with me.  But, look, let’s not call it ‘conflict.’  Let’s just say that - like Beatrice - you’ve got ‘passion’ instead.”

She felt her cheeks heat.  Blimey - why was her body reacting to him like a stupid thirteen year old girl?  “Passion is overrated,” she asserted primly.

At that, his blond eyebrows flew to his hairline, and he barked out a laugh.  “You’re basing that on Weasley, I take it?”

“No,” she shot out.  Well, not entirely.  Sure, the ‘passion’ between she and Ron had waffled between friendly comfort and trivial arguments, but the first two boys who had kissed her - Viktor and Cormac - had also underwhelmed her. They were older and more confident, with a vitality and an interest in her that was baffling.  She had thought they might embody passion - and that they might instill some passion within her - but they simply couldn’t stimulate her.

And her opinion on passion wasn’t based solely on romantic relationships.  She had given her all to her schoolwork, striving to be the ‘best’ at the expense of forming friendships with her classmates.  Even her professors had wearied of her ever-eagerness.  And then she had thrown herself into SPEW, only to eventually realise that her naive attempts at liberation were actually based on projecting her position instead of listening to what the elves had desired.  Her passion had been misguided and misplaced.  Wasted.

“I’ve simply grown up.”

At that, Draco seemed to sober a bit.  “We’ve both grown.  And by some strange twist of the Fates, we’ve survived a bloody fucking war.”

“Barely.”

“Barely,” he agreed.  “But you’ve always been ludicrously brave, with a fire that - for some reason - other people envy.”

Something in his tone struck a chord, stirring away her melancholy.  “Envy?” she questioned lightly.

He shrugged.  “In an _absolutely vexatious_ kind of way, mind you.”  That teeny smile was back.  “What do you think will happen to the Azkaban dementors if Shacklebolt’s proposal passes?”

Her eyes widened at his sudden change of subject, but she quickly felt more relaxed.  More than her own absurd feelings, this was a topic she knew.  She cosied up in the plush throw and started talking, growing increasingly animated with each question he interjected and each counter-argument he launched.

 

~~~~~~~

 

They talked for hours, moving smoothly from dementors to werewolves to house-elves to Hogwarts.  For the last twenty minutes or so, Hermione had been resting her head on the arm of the sofa, and Draco knew that sleep would overtake her soon.  He was selfish to keep her up so late, but he was so starved for companionship, so haunted most of the time that he relished the connection in sparring with her.

Plus, she wasn’t bad to look at.

He raked his gaze over the timeworn blanket hugging her petite body, the full pink lips that were slightly parted, the dark shadows under her whiskey-coloured eyes, the light freckles on her nose, the feminine lashes fluttering closed, and the untamed hair that was as independent and spirited as he knew her to be.  Hermione was the opposite of everything his mother desired for him - and she’d practically said as much yesterday - but he couldn’t seem to push down his thoughts about the young woman lying near him.  It was concerning that she was still so emotionally lost, but he supposed he was, too.

He refrained from responding to her last comment, listening as her breathing grew slower and heavier.  At length, he pushed out of his armchair and turned off some of the lights.  She didn’t even stir.  If he were a proper gentleman, he’d retreat to his own room and let her sleep in peace.  Fortunately for him, he wasn’t.

But it was only a matter of time before her demons would wake her, and then her parents would come running and find them here together.  He pursed his lips in thought.

Her wand was resting in its spot beside the floo.  A quick silencing charm would prevent her parents from interfering, giving him a few extra hours to be near her, a few extra hours that he wouldn’t have to be fighting his own demons alone in his room.  Slowly, he reached out and reverently took hold of her wand, gently turning it in his fingers.  It had been _ages_ since he’d touched one, and he was disappointed when he failed to feel magic flowing into him.

It was a powerful instrument, and he knew the spell - would it work with his destroyed magical core?  He swished it through the air, whispering the incantation.  Nothing.  He tried again, focusing all of his mental energy on the powerful wood, saying the incantation the slightest bit louder and clearer.  The wand twitched, and a wide smile cut across Draco’s face.  He scrunched his eyes closed in concentration, putting all of his focus on the spell.

“ _Sil-_ ”

“Draco!” Hermione yelled.  “What are you doing?!”

His eyes flew open to find Hermione staring at him in horror.  She was off the sofa in an instant, storming toward him with unrestrained fury.  “That’s my wand!!”

Alarmed, Draco mindlessly gripped it tighter, but the instant she was on him, tugging it from his grasp, he relinquished it in embarrassment.  She stood before him, arms crossed over her chest, wand clutched in her fist, fuming at him with an icy gaze that wavered between accusatory and betrayed.

“I just wanted to see if it would work,” he finally muttered.  It was a weak answer, even if it was true.

“You wanted to see if it’d _work_?” she repeated back incredulously.  “You must be joking!  Even _I_ don’t use my wand in this house for anything other than the wards.  And _of course_ it won’t work you blooming idiot!  Your magic has been _gutted_ because of your _abuse of it_!”  She sucked in a deep breath as Draco’s stomach dropped.  “I can’t _believe_ I trusted you!  I’m _such_ a fool!”

“Hermione -,” he started, forcing himself to look straight at her.  He took a step in her direction, but she whipped back from him with a disgusted scowl on her face.

“I’m going to bed,” she stated implacably.  “And I’m taking my wand with me.  You will stay away from me and my parents, or Merlin help me I’ll hex you into oblivion.”  She turned and started stomping toward the stairs.

"Just hear me out, Granger!”  She kept walking, her hand stretching out to the banister.  “It was just a bloody silencing charm!  I figured you wouldn’t want to disturb your parents with your nightmares.  I was trying to be fucking helpful!”

She paused half-way up, her knuckles whitening from her grip on the handrail.  Draco swallowed, his heart pounding pathetically.  Why in Merlin’s name did this _matter_ so much?

The beautiful young witch kept her chin up, gaze focused on the top of the stairs.  He could see her squeeze the rail before she wordlessly continued her ascent.  A moment later, her door thudded shut.

Draco squashed his palms against his temples, fingertips biting into his scalp.  What a royal fuck-up.  No way in hell was he sleeping tonight.

 

~~~~~~~

 

**Saturday, July 18, 1998**

 

Hermione dragged the hand rake through the soil of the garden bed, scraping thoughtlessly at the weeds as her mum chattered beside her.  “And we’ll put the radishes here, the cucumbers there, and the tomato starts over there…”  She glanced over expectantly.  “Hermione?  Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine, Mum.”

“Are you certain that you still want to help?  You played quite vigorously during tennis this morning, and I know that you’re not sleeping well…”

“Mum.  I said I’m fine.”

“And I notice that Draco’s not sleeping well either, lately.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and thrust the rake in harder.  Her mum was about as subtle as an injured hippogriff.

Carol Granger sat up on her knees, brushing the back of her gloved hand across her forehead.  “What’s going on between you two?”

Hermione grabbed a rooty clump and tossed it into a bucket.  “There’s nothing going on, Mum.  You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Enough, Hermione.  You will _not_ treat me like a child.  I _do_ actually have passable powers of perception, and it has not escaped _anyone’s_ notice that you’ve been giving that boy the silent treatment.  Did he do something...inappropriate?  Your father and I deserve to know if there’s a problem under our own roof.”

Strictly speaking, Hermione had spoken to him yesterday to say, “Time to go,” before she grabbed him roughly by the elbow and apparated them none too gently to Dr Davies’s office.  But, yes, otherwise she’d been avoiding him at every turn.  

Not that it helped.  Her brain was constantly overrun by thoughts of him.

_That’s because you’re being too harsh, Hermione.  He tried to apologise - Draco Malfoy apologising! - and you closed him out like a bitch._

_Well, he shouldn’t be touching my wand!  It’s bad enough to fondle someone else’s things without permission, but every wizard knows that a wand is practically an extension of a person.  He violated my trust!_

_He was probably just curious if he could still perform a spell.  You know you would be.  And no harm came, since he couldn’t actually do anything.  You know you feel a bit sorry for his squib arse, if you’re honest._

_He tricked me.  The sneaky bastard waited until I was asleep.  Who knows what else he would have done if I hadn’t caught him._

_You’re being ridiculous.  He could have come any night and taken your wand if he’d wanted to.  But he didn’t.  He was probably telling you the truth.  And you like thinking about what he might have done with you...on the sofa...and on the floor...and on the table._

_Pervert._

_They’re your thoughts.  You’re obviously stressed and randy._

Hermione cleared her throat and glanced over to where her mum was watching her expectantly.  She shifted her knees uncomfortably.  “Draco did something that made me angry.”

Her mum waited a moment, and upon realising that Hermione had no intention of saying more, she prodded, “On purpose?”

“No.  I don’t think so.”

“Dangerous?”

“No.”

“Did he...touch you?”

“No, Mum!  He...he picked up my wand.”

Her mother’s brows furrowed.  “But I thought he doesn’t have any more magical powers.”

“He doesn’t.  He can’t perform magic.”  The whole thing sounded stupid now that she said it out loud.

Her mum bit her lip.  “Well, only you know how inappropriate that was.  You’ll have to decide whether to forgive him or not.  But for the sake of everyone in this house, I hope that you’ll address it soon one way or another.  We’ve always tried to teach you the value of open communication; you are above petty avoidance, darling.”

Hermione jerked her head in a hasty nod as she dug her rake in again.  Her mum was right.  She just needed to call him out on his atrocious decision, and then they could move on.

“Soooo,” her mother continued, dropping more weeds into the bucket.  “Paul seemed happy to see you at tennis this morning.”

Hermione stifled a groan.

“I think he fancies you.  Are you really going driving with him tomorrow?”

“I told him I would.”  She really didn’t know what she’d been thinking.  She’d known Paul forever, but he was like a muggle version of Cormac - overconfident and, she suspected, handsy.  But at the time she’d been watching Draco playing tennis clumsily against her mum, and she’d just wanted to escape the irrational feeling that Draco had somehow betrayed her.

Her mum was smiling.  “Well, you deserve to have some fun, darling.”

Hermione shoved her gloved hand into the soil as her dad entered the backyard pushing the lawnmower, Draco following on his heels.  She stiffened as Draco’s eyes darted to her and then redirected to her dad.

“Okay Draco, you’ll push here,” her dad said, indicating a lever, and then you’ll pull quickly on this cord here.”  Hermione’s mouth dropped open.  Her dad was teaching Draco Malfoy how to use a lawnmower?  The world had now officially turned on its head.

Draco watched with incredible seriousness, and then stepped forward.  Hermione flushed as he shot another glance her way before reaching down and following each direction precisely.  It took a couple of pulls, but soon the mower was running, and Draco was pushing the machine across the length of the yard.  

Hermione stared for a few moments in disbelief before finally catching herself and studiously returning her attention to the garden bed.  She tried to ignore the reverberating clunks of the engine as she worked, the way her heartbeat picked up slightly each time Draco passed by their end of the yard.

But she couldn’t escape the smell - that wonderful scent of freshly cut grass that made her insides turn to jelly.  She imagined that fragrance hovering over Draco like a haze; she envisioned leaning into his chest and inhaling until it seeped into every cell of her body.  She swallowed and stole a glance in his direction.  He was starting to get the faintest line of sweat on the back of his shirt.  Merlin help her.

She stood up and brushed at her trousers before tugging off her gloves.  “I think I’ll have a rest after all, Mum.”  She knew it was more avoidance.  It was pathetic and cowardly and not at all like she used to be.  But she couldn’t confront Draco with her thoughts this unbridled.  Why on earth did everything with this guy have to be so complicated?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has stuck with this story so far! I know that it's taken some twists and turns and that I tend to include a lot of detail...lol...but I want to reassure you that most of the seemingly random bits do in fact tie into a grander plan. These vignettes will all come together. In the meantime, I hope that you continue to enjoy the ride. Thanks again!!!


	17. Surprises and Suspicions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally ready! Thanks for your patience!
> 
> A/N: There are several parts to this chapter, and while I hope that you enjoy them all, I also recognize that some of the sections might not be for everyone...so, a few preemptive disclaimers.  
> (1) We open with Hermione's pov in a dream. Some might consider it a bit smutty and/or OOC, but personally I enjoyed delving into Hermione's subconscious (or 'unconscious mind,' if you're a fan of Freud) as she moves forward with her post-war reawakening.  
> (2) The 'Lady Disdain' and 'I will stop your mouth' phrases belong to William Shakespeare (Much Ado About Nothing, Act I scene I and Act V scene IV, respectively). Just giving credit where it's due. : )  
> (3) TRIGGER: This chapter reveals symptoms of sleep deprivation and includes some depressive discussion. Please be advised if these are sensitive topics for you.
> 
> All that said, I hope you enjoy the next installment of their journey!

**Sunday, July 19, 1998**

 

_Two large hands planted on the soft blanket on either side of her prone body, arms caging her against the ground._

_“I knew I’d find you here.”_

_The voice, throaty and thick, vibrated in her ear, sending a ripple of electricity down her spine as a warm, heavy weight settled over her body, her back colliding with his firm chest, his groin nestling against her bum.  Her book dropped from her fingers and plunked into the sun-cloaked blades of grass extending beyond the edge of the fabric._

_She nibbled her lip, inhaling deeply, the scent of the freshly-cut lawn swirling around her.  “Why are you here, disturbing my peace?”  Her words snapped out in a staccato, even while her eyes closed and she arched into the faceless man behind her._

_“Why, my dear Lady Disdain...”  His breath brushed against her ear, his face lowering until his nose nuzzled against her neck.  “I endeavor to provide shadow to your light.”_

_“Naturally.  The shadow selfishly seeks accommodation.”  She pitched her hips forward, thrusting her arse up into his crotch to punctuate her words._

_“Ah, yet who is truly the selfish one?  A shadow depends upon the light to exist.”  One masculine arm snaked around her waist, hugging her tighter against him before deft fingers slipped beneath the hem of her shirt.  His palm spread wide, soothing against the flesh of her belly.  Whisper-soft, he murmured, “I daresay a shadow is at the mercy of the light.”_

_She groaned slightly, heat spreading through her limbs.  “Why should light be merciful?  Light has no need for shadow.”_

_He scoffed.  “You lie to yourself.”  She shuddered as teeth nipped at her ear.  His voice thrummed.  “What is music without the silent spaces between the notes?  What is day without night to contrast it?  Light would burn itself to nothingness if it didn’t have a reprieve now and then.”_

_She pushed against the blanket, levering them both onto their knees.  His arms tightened around her, holding her back against him, fingertips plucking lightly at her nipples.  “And you think you’re my reprieve?”_

_“Obviously.”  His fingers slid beneath the waistband of her shorts and then dove further, rubbing at the moistened cradle of her knickers.  “Ummm.  Proof.”_

_Hermione wriggled, one hand rubbing at his thigh while the other reached back to grasp his scalp.  “You’ve proven nothing.  Perhaps the light was able to accommodate herself without the encroachment of shadow.”_

_He clucked.  “You’ll char yourself with your stubbornness.”  He delved his fingers beneath her knickers, tips skating across the short, wet curls before plunging into her passage and then gliding back out to caress her._

_She sucked in a breath, making absolutely no move to stop his ministrations.  Still, she couldn’t give up the sparring entirely. “Better stubborn than regretful,” she breathed._

_He chuckled, and her insides melted.  “No regrets - just balance.  But to prove it, first I’ll need to stop your mouth.”_

_In a quick, fluid movement she was flipped to her back, his lips stealing hers in a blinding kiss.  His tongue played with hers, battling for dominance, and suddenly, somehow, they were naked, smooth skin pressed together.  She felt one hand cradling her head and the other soothing her clit while his demanding mouth intoxicated her.  She opened herself entirely, wanting to savor the mindless pleasure he could offer._

_She couldn’t break away from his lips, his tongue, his teeth, but she allowed her hands to slide over his body, down his back, up his thighs, finally slipping between them to encircle his length.  He was at her entrance, then inside, tongues still tangling until he finally broke his mouth free and straightened his arms to brace himself above her._

_He gleamed, his frame fuzzy at the edges, sun shining around him like a golden aura, face still silhouetted in shadow.  Light and dark.  Ethereal.  Surreal._

_She lowered her hand to her clit, wanting to ground herself, unwilling to give this up as a fantasy.  She rubbed quickly, feeling him heat with desire against her.  She raised her gaze to his darkened face, and his eyes suddenly pierced into her, sharp and silvery, like moonlight reflecting on a lake.  She stilled at the familiarity of them, but he placed his hand atop hers, encouraging her to continue her intimate self-caresses.  He resumed his own movements, thrusting again and again, deeper each time, and with each marvelous motion, his features became more defined.  Sharp lines.  Straight brows.  Aristocratic nose.  Soft lips.  The light around them grew as she hovered on the brink of release, and she closed her eyes, head tossing, trying to focus on the pleasure that was almost within reach.  She felt him against her, inside her, hard and warm, and she pried her eyes back open to see pale skin and white-blond hair._

_No._

_No no no no no no!_

_Eyes glinting with desire, skin shimmering with a slight sheen of sweat, he smirked at her._

Hermione’s body shook with the waves of her orgasm.  Crashing quickly back to reality, she yanked her wayward hand from her pyjama shorts and pulled her pillow over her head.  Holy fuck.  It had been a long time since she’d had a sexual dream, and her awakening brain sputtered, absolutely failing to reconcile who’d been in it.

Sure, she’d noticed that Draco Malfoy was attractive in a vague sort of way, but it couldn’t have been him.  He would never talk to her in such metaphors, let alone touch her intimately.  He may be tolerably civil these days, but she wasn’t naive enough to think that a month of ‘corrections’ was enough to void out the years of loathing he’d felt towards her.

And she, correspondingly, could not be the slightest bit interested in him.  His past behaviour was repulsive.  And now, well, even if he was more decent than before, he was still moody and sarcastic and annoying and...and...he was a teenage convict.  Living in her house.  With her parents, for Godric’s sake.

This was _not_ good.  But surely it was an anomaly.  It was because he’d shocked her by mowing the lawn the previous afternoon, causing a scent that she’d find appealing on _anyone_.  Or maybe it was because she’d finally confronted him about the wand just before sitting down to dinner last night.  Or...maybe...it was because she’d admittedly pleasured herself in between those two events, opening up the floodgates.  Her ridiculous ogling of Draco in the yard _had_ been the initial impetus that had convinced her she was overdue, but she had not - had NOT - permitted herself to fantasize about him, instead falling back on her favoured _assisting-the-fit-new-professor-with-research-in-the-stacks_ scheme.  So why was she _still_ having sexual thoughts now, at 2:30 in the morning?  And why _him_?

She needed to reset.  She climbed out of bed and tiptoed to the loo, the beam of light under Draco’s door stealing her attention.  Was he awake?  

_It doesn’t matter._

She snapped her gaze forward and padded resolutely down the corridor.  After tending to her hygiene, she splashed water in her face and stared at herself in the mirror.

_You are NOT going crazy, Hermione Granger.  It’s all very logical.  You’ve been spending a lot of time together, that’s all.  You’ve been dealing with the break-up and your war memories and your parents and this outrageous Wizengamot sentence, but soon you’ll be back at Hogwarts, buried in your studies, and everything will feel more normal._

She nodded to herself and then slipped back into the dark passageway, stalking past Draco’s room without sparing it a thought.  Okay, maybe _one_ thought.  His light _was_ still on.  But, so what?

She dropped onto her bed and stared at the ceiling.  She had to forget him and get some sleep.  She wrapped her duvet around herself and concentrated on garden gnomes.  The importation of gillyweed.  The steps for a perfect brew of Draught of Peace.

She sighed.  Was he lying awake, too?  

It wouldn’t surprise her, and she’d bet fifty galleons that if she went to see him right now, she wouldn’t find the actual Draco looking anything at all like dream Draco.  His appearance had become increasingly disheveled the past few days, and he was acting progressively out of character.  His eyelids sagged, and the dark circles under his eyes were becoming more and more prominent.  Whereas a couple of weeks ago he’d spent most of his time alone in his room, now he pushed himself like crazy during the day - exhausting himself at Hogwarts and then doing random tasks around the house to stay busy.

He obviously needed sleep, but she could hardly blame him for not wanting to close his eyes.  Most nights, she didn’t want to, either.  She suspected that his stores of Dreamless Sleep were gone - or at least expired - and that he was feeling the effects.  Still, it wasn’t _her_ problem.

She let out a deep breath, grabbing her _Highway Code_ handbook. If her brain was going to insist on spinning around in circles, she might as well put it to use preparing for her driving theory test and her upcoming practise session with Paul.

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Ahhh!” Hermione hollered, instinctively slamming her foot on the brake.  They lurched forward, straining against the seat belts as the car arrested and stalled out a foot shy of the schoolyard fence.  Her fists tight around the steering wheel, she sucked in a breath before glancing in Paul’s direction.

He had one hand braced on the dashboard and the other palming the fabric interior of the roof.  As he met her gaze, both dark eyebrows slid up.  “That was better,” he deadpanned, his flat voice at odds with his pale fingertips.

Hermione curled over the steering wheel as her stress erupted in a bubble of nervous laughter.  Head resting between her white-knuckled hands, she shook slightly, involuntarily emitting a vibrating gurgle somewhere between a laugh and a cry.  “I’m so sorry, Paul.  Are you all right?”

She jerked up at the surprising sensation of his finger gently stroking against her cheek.  “I’m fine.  Are _you_ okay?”

Embarrassed warmth seeped through her, and she could tell that she remained flushed even after he dropped his hand.

“Yes,” she murmured.  “But I _told_ you this was a horrid idea.  I can’t believe you’re trusting me in this teeny car park with your own vehicle.  It’s daft, really.”

The corners of his mouth stretched up.  “Well, I enjoy some excitement in my life now and then.”  He extended his arm to drape across her headrest.  “And I’ve told _you_ that every driver ought to know how to operate a manual transmission.”

She sighed.  “You’ll be singing a different tune if I crash your car through the fence.”

“Don’t worry.  You won’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Well, first of all, you’d need to actually get past second gear to even dent that fence.”  He grinned, and Hermione shook her head slightly to cover her chagrin.  “And secondly,” Paul continued, “I trust you.”

Hermione averted her eyes and bit her lips.  “I’m returning to school soon.  I won’t have a need to drive at all, let alone using a blooming _clutch_.”

Paul chuckled.  He dropped his arm and turned his body more fully to face her.  “Your mum mentioned that you’d be heading back.  I must say I was surprised.  I figured you’d be in route to uni, ready to live it up, take on the world and all that.”

Hermione dropped her hands from the steering wheel into her lap.  Steeling her face in a cloak of calm, she looked him in the eyes.  “I’ve been given a unique opportunity at my school, so I’m going to take advantage.”

Paul nodded slowly.  “And you won’t want to drive?  Even to come home to visit?”  His pupils expanded marginally as he peered at her, his features subtly softening.  For the briefest flicker of time, Hermione thought she saw a flash of boyish vulnerability.

She glanced out the windscreen, debating how much to tell.  “I’ll actually be living at home this coming year.  It’s...it’s a special situation.”

A grin spread across Paul’s face and then wavered.  “Draco, too?”

“Draco, too.”

They were both silent for a moment, surveying the vacant schoolyard.  “So, what’s his deal?  You two don’t exactly act like friends.”

“We’re not.”

“But he lives with you?”

Hermione sighed.  Paul was obviously digging.  “Draco is a schoolmate, and he can’t live at home right now.  It’s...complicated.”

“And he doesn’t have friends he can stay with?”

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek.  It really wasn’t her place to share Draco’s private business, but she knew that it would be more suspicious if she kept evading Paul’s questions.  She decided on some half-truths.  “Draco’s home situation was...dangerous.  His father is incarcerated now, and most of his friends’ families are also in trouble with the law.”

Paul looked mildly alarmed.  “And you think he’s okay?  What about the apple and the tree and all that?”

“If given the right conditions, an apple can grow into a healthy new tree, regardless of its parentage, Paul.  Draco is....”  Hermione struggled to find the word.  He wasn’t ‘fine’ or ‘good’ or ‘innocent.’  Given the wand situation, he also wasn’t perfectly trustworthy.  But a niggling intuition _knew_ that he was repentant.  He was not his past.  He was not evil.  She inhaled.  “He is deserving of a chance.”

Paul shook his head slightly, but then a thought occurred to him.  “But isn’t he of age?  He could live on his own.”

Hermione swallowed.  “He’s been through a lot, and frankly I don’t think he’s at a point where he could make it on his own.  Our headmistress spoke to my parents about taking Draco in, and they agreed.”

Paul stared at her for a long time, and Hermione shifted uncomfortably.  “What?” she asked, brushing her hair behind her ear.

A somber smile stretched across Paul’s face.  “You.  Your family.  You’re special people, Hermione.  Always willing to examine beneath the surface and advocate for others.  It’s...remarkable, really.”

She could feel the blood warming her face, colouring her cheeks and neck, but she merely shrugged.  “In this case, it seemed like the right thing to do.”

Paul nodded and cleared his throat.  “And what about your ex?  How did he take this, er, arrangement?”

Hermione snapped her eyes back towards the schoolyard, a mantle of gloom suddenly weighing her down.  “Not well,” she stated crisply.  She placed her hand on the gear lever, ready for this conversation to be _over_.

“Ah,” Paul uttered knowingly.  “Draco mentioned that he was an arsehole.”

Hermione huffed, jiggling the lever in the neutral position.  “Draco and Ron have never liked each other and probably never will.”

Paul seemed to finally realise that he’d pushed a bit too far.  His hand settled lightly on top of Hermione’s, and she had to will herself not to jerk away.  “Some blokes are just too insecure and immature to be understanding of noble acts, Hermione.”  His fingers curled against hers, gently playing with the tips before pushing down to intertwine with her digits on the knob.  “But not all of us are the irrationally jealous type.”

Hermione eyed him speculatively, but said nothing.

“Sounds like Draco could use some new friends.  Does he like rugby?  I’m coaching a youth summer camp next month, and he could come along, meet some of my coaching mates.”

A jumble of emotions hit Hermione at once, and she almost snorted.  She didn’t know which was more jarring - the mental image of Draco surrounded by a bunch of kids or the thought of him buddying up with burly rugby players.  She tried to picture him in tight shorts and jersey, his limbs coated in mud.

Paul’s fingers rubbed against hers, and she glanced at him.  Now _this_ was a bloke who looked like a rugby player - big, muscled, confident.  And she was not surprised in the least that he spent his time coaching.  He smiled broadly, and Hermione realised that he’d caught her checking him out.

“I don’t know about Draco, Paul, but that’s really kind of you to offer.”

He lifted her hand from the gear lever and brushed her fingers with his lips.  “My pleasure, Hermione.”

She tensed and spun her head forward again, her lips clamped between her teeth.  Paul gently set her hand back on the shifter.  He leaned next to her ear.  “Time for another go.  Clutch in, foot on the brake, ignition on, and slide it into reverse.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

An hour later, Hermione approached her front door, a small smile on her face.  Barring a few embarrassing moments, her driving practise with Paul had gone better than expected.  He was surprisingly patient, and despite her initial worry, he hadn’t forced himself on her.  In fact, beyond the kiss to her hand, he hadn’t made any physical moves.  When they’d arrived back home, his eyes had been warm and inviting, and she’d found herself automatically agreeing to go driving again next weekend.

She felt the tingle of the wards as she stepped onto the threshold, and her smile instantly faltered, a ripple of alarm sweeping over her.  Something was wrong.

Wand out, she eased silently into the entry hall, immediately crouching low and scanning every corner.  The ground floor was eerily quiet, and she reminded herself that her parents had planned to run errands this afternoon.  She slipped straight into the kitchen and peered into the backyard.  Nothing amiss.  She circled through the dining room and crept through to the sitting room, carefully examining the floo port.  It seemed undisturbed, but she could _feel_ a breach in the house’s protections.

She was squatting low to check out the old traces of floo powder when she heard a sudden _thunk_ from the next floor.  Heart pounding, wand poised, she slipped up the stairs.  Draco was talking to someone in tones so low that she couldn’t make out the words.  She pressed her ear to his door, trying to hear past the sound of her own racing heartbeat.

A scraping from the other side of the door caused her to lurch back, and as the door suddenly opened, she was tackled by a big, fuzzy orange fireball.  That mewled.  And sniffed.  And rubbed.

Eyes wide, Hermione clutched at it in disbelief.  “Crookshanks?”

The beast nuzzled against her, and Hermione’s eyes started tearing up.  “Crooks!”  She held him close and petted him, murmuring into his fur.  “Where’ve you been?  How’d you get here?”

Suddenly she remembered the wards and jerked her eyes up to see a pillowcase-clad house-elf hiding behind Draco’s leg.  Hermione glanced at Draco’s face, his expression completely neutral, and then directed her gaze to the elf.  Somehow, he must have apparated past the protective enchantments.  

She entered Draco’s room and bent low, her cat still snuggled in her arms.  “You brought Crookshanks home?”

The elf took a step back and bowed low.  There were raised red lines on his arm where Crooks must have scratched him.  “Yes, Miss.  It was on Master Draco’s list.”

Hermione watched as Draco’s expression hardened, and the elf instantly disapparated.  

“Wait!” Hermione called, and she turned her gaze on Draco.  “Why did you chase him off?  I didn’t even get to thank him!  I don’t even know his name.”

Draco glared at her enormous cat, his nose lifting in an expression of disgust.  “I’d forgotten how ugly that thing is,” he muttered.  

Hermione held firm.  “Who was that elf, Draco?  And what list was he talking about?”

Draco shrugged.  “The list’s not important.  Higgly was just helping me gather things at the Manor.”  He turned to peer out the window.

“Higgly,” Hermione repeated.  “And you told him to find Crookshanks?”

Draco peered harder through the glass, feigning fascination with something out on the street.  Without thought, Hermione approached and gave him a peck on the cheek.  “Thank you.”

Draco snapped his head towards her, eyes narrowed and scowl so strong that Hermione immediately stepped back two paces.  Why was he so angry?  He'd made a gesture to help her, but she was still repulsive to him?  She swallowed.  Lifting her chin, she haughtily enquired, “Could you call Higgly back?  I’d like to thank him.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Granger,” Draco grumbled.  “He came here because he was following orders, but now he’s back at the Manor, and I have no way of reaching him.”

“You could owl your mum and have him come back, couldn’t you?” she challenged.

Draco’s scowl deepened, and he gestured to the empty cage on the desk.  “I thought you were more observant.  Talon’s not here.”

“Well, when will he be back?”

Draco turned back to the window and shrugged.  Hermione huffed.  She squeezed Crookshanks closer and stalked to her room, her grateful appreciation giving way to a sudden eagerness to put some space between herself and the moody blond.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco jerked up from the desk tucked beneath his bedroom window, the stiff chair plummeting backwards to crash on the floor.  He scraped his palms over his burning eyes, trying to get his bearings as his chest heaved wildly.  

It was dark outside, but his light was on.  He’d fallen asleep.  Briefly.  Reading at the desk.

And the fucking monster came, like he always did, more predictable in sleep than in life.  The images from the nightmare continued to pierce through Draco, trickling across his consciousness.  He could still see how the Dark Lord stalked around him, snake at his side, murmuring for him to watch the show.

_Charity Burbage, Muggle Studies Professor, hung suspended over a table, her eyes alive and imploring.  She spun around and around, upside down, and as the snake poised to devour her whole, the scraggly blonde hair suddenly morphed to curly brown, the wrinkles of her skin smoothed with youth, and amber eyes peered straight at him, defiant and accusing.  The snake swayed in anticipation, and Draco shot to his feet, noting the Dark Lord’s snide laughter and blazing curse a moment too late.  Pain ripped through him, and he stared in blind horror as the body dropped to the wood of the table with a sickening thump, a huge ginger cat coming to stand sentinel over the twisted limbs as the snake slithered ever closer across the smooth surface…_

It was only a fucking dream, but it was a dream too close to the realities he’d witnessed.  His heart was still hammering, and he tugged at his hair, trying to pull himself back to the present.

All at once, a noise reverberated from the bedroom door, and Draco nearly jumped out of his pants.  He twisted towards the sound, positioning himself on the far side of the room, the bed a pathetic shield.  The light knocking continued, and a voice carried through.  

“Draco?  Draco, I heard a crash.  Is everything okay?”  Hermione.  Nosey, annoyingly altruistic Hermione.

Draco leaned his back against the wall and sank down to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and shoving his fingers into his hair.  He hated that she kept showing up in his dreams.

The door creaked open, and Hermione padded into the room, her repugnant cat following on her heels.  The ginger beast came up to sniff him, and Draco swatted it away as he heard the light scraping of Hermione righting the desk chair.  After a silent moment, she uttered, “It’s almost half one.  You look like absolute hell, Draco.  You're out of Dreamless Sleep, I take it?”

Draco grunted, lowering his forehead to his knees.  “Get out of here, Granger, and take your nasty cat.”  His throat caught on his words, and to his mortification, tears welled up behind his eyelids.

“Up, Malfoy.”

“Are you fucking daft?  I said to get the hell out!”

“Nice try, but I became desensitized to your rants a long time ago.”  

Draco’s eyes snapped open as she stepped forward and yanked on his arm.  “Up.”

“Fuck OFF!”  He jerked his arm inward, and she released it, but to his utter frustration she remained hovering over him.

“Draco, you’re beyond exhausted.  Get in bed.”

“It’s none of your fucking business, bloody hypocrite!  YOU go to bed.”

She released a heavy sigh and stepped back as Draco scrubbed his hands over his face.  He fucking hurt everywhere - throbbing head, pinched muscles, scratchy throat, burning eyes.  Hermione shifted back toward the door, and Draco’s shoulders shook in both relief and misery, irrational emotion billowing inside.  He wanted her gone, but to his shock, she merely sat against the wall on the opposite side of the room, her legs crossed in front of her.

“You do realise that it’s possible to die from sleep deprivation, don’t you?”

Draco growled and dropped his forehead against his knees.

“There are the body aches and moodiness, of course, but I suspect you’ve had those for awhile.  But then your brain will start to shut down - impaired thinking, memory problems, hallucinations… What if you went tumbling down the stairs, or if you were to slip and hit your head in the shower.  Frankly, you’re lucky that you didn’t hurt yourself with the lawnmower yesterday.”

“Wouldja shut the hell up?!”  He slammed his palms against his throbbing temples.  “Whatarya even complaining about?  It would work out better for everyone if I expired anyway.”

Hermione shot to her feet so quickly that Draco’s vision wobbled.  “What are you on about?  If you _expired_?!  How dare you talk like that, Draco Malfoy?”

“Whaddaya even care, Granger?" he grumbled.  "You, with your amorous suitors and your righteous future and your happy little Mudblood family.”

Hermione’s voice turned to ice.  “I’ve seen enough death, Malfoy, so pardon me for not wanting to find your body crumpled in the entry hall of my parents’ house.  And _excuse me_ , for believing that some people have the capacity to change.”

Did she really think that, or were they just words?  Draco watched through watery eyes as the damned cat jumped onto his bed.  He dropped his head again.

“Draco, you need to talk to Dr Davies.  But for now, Climb. Into. Bed.  Then I’ll go.”

“You got bloody nerve, Granger,” he mumbled.  “Who’re you to talk?”

He heard her sigh again.  “I don’t like sleep, either, Draco.  The _difference_ is that I actually go to sleep for a few hours and then have trouble going back.  But I don’t think you’re even going to sleep in the first place, are you?  How many days has it been?”

Since he'd done more than nod off?  He honestly didn’t know anymore.  Hermione approached him again, her eyes full of concern, and this time he let her tug him up.  He crawled onto the covers to placate her, but then his arms gave out from under him and he crashed down.  But the fucking images in his brain would not disappear.

“Finally,” Hermione muttered.  She moved to the door, and Draco strained to push himself up.  He would hate himself for admitting it, but he didn’t actually want her to leave.  If she was here, then she couldn't possibly be inside that heinous snake.  He struggled to say something that would halt her, but the words wouldn’t come.  Tears leaked from his burning eyes.

She seemed to understand.  “I’ll be right back.”

She left, and Draco stared blindly at the cat next to him, unable to find the energy to even shove it away.  A moment later she returned with a book and sat once more against the wall.  He couldn’t see which book it was, but she promptly opened to the middle and began reading aloud.

"Parking, Part 3.  Parking at Night.  'You must not park on a road at night facing against the traffic flow unless in a recognized parking space...'".

Draco closed his eyes and nestled his head into the duvet.  Hermione’s melodic voice was certainly not as sleep-inducing as Professor Binns’s tedious monotone, but he still found himself relaxing under the dry words of the text and the comforting presence of the merciful witch who was there with him.


	18. Discussions and Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hippogriff! Two months since my last post?! My sincerest apologies for taking so long to update. I've been in a bit of a time warp brought on by an unusual series of events. I'll spare the details here (elaboration in the end notes for any curious souls), but I do want to say...  
> (1) This fic is definitely not abandoned!!!  
> (2) This chapter is a bit longer to atone (at least somewhat?) for the delay.  
> (3) Thank you, thank you, thank you for your continued readership, encouragement, and feedback!  
> With much appreciation,  
> sirel

 

**Monday, July 20, 1998**

 

Hermione rubbed her eyes as she tottered down the stairs, the smells of coffee and bacon only slightly rousing her.  She was so stiff and exhausted that she would willingly give up her _Hogwarts: A History_ book in exchange for a few more hours of sleep, but alas, she had an interminable to-do list.  She stretched her neck to the side, grimacing at the crick and internally blaming Draco - or at least his floor - for such uncomfortable treatment.  Not that it was completely his fault.  After all, it had been her decision to sit in his room reading, and he was hardly responsible for her drifting off.  Apparently she’d zonked out for over an hour before lurching awake and stumbling back to bed...and now she was paying for it.

She pressed harder at the knotted muscle as she reached the base of the stairs, where her parents were already slipping on their work shoes.  A small sigh escaped her.  She’d known it was only a matter of time until they’d be back to their old routine of early mornings and late evenings at the dental clinic.

“Morning, Chickpea,” her father chirped as he shrugged into a lightweight grey jacket.  “We left breakfast for you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“How’d you sleep, darling?” her mum inquired, eagle eyes homing in on Hermione’s kneading fingers.

Hermione quickly dropped her hand.  “Uh, fine, Mum.  Busy schedule today?”

Her mum sighed deeply, stooping to pick up her briefcase.  “Yes.  Our patient load has really picked back up.  I’m amazed, to be honest, given how long we were gone.  We’re going to have to make adjustments to our staffing.”

Hermione nodded.  Dickelson must have used some magical influence, but there was no way she’d mention it.  Her dad was still stubbornly squeamish about her wand.

“Well, I for one am glad that business is good,” he remarked.  “However,” he drawled, looking pointedly at Hermione, “I meant what I said about you taking advantage of your time this summer.  Once you enter the working world, you won’t have such long holidays, you know.  In fact, I was thinking that this weekend we should all go to the beach as a last hurrah before you’re back at Hogwarts.”

Her mum nodded in agreement, but Hermione bit her lips.  She had to prepare for DADA, and she wanted to keep her weekend open in case Harry was available.  It felt like ages since she’d seen him, and with the current awkwardness with the Weasleys, she preferred to catch him alone.

“What is it, Hermione?  Have you already plans?” her mum prodded.

“Well, I’d planned to meet up with Harry.  It’s almost his birthday, and...”

“You’d rather spend time with him,” her dad declared flatly.  “You’re not seeing Harry now, are you?”

“What?” Hermione sputtered.  “You mean romantically?  No!  You know that Harry has always been a close friend.”

“Hmph.  As was Ronald, who’s caused you nothing but heartache.  The two of them have often pulled you away from us in the past, Hermione - for summers, even Christmases - directly into dangerous situations.”

“Alan -” her mum interjected in warning, but he continued on.  

“And now you want to go off again.  How do we know Harry won’t lead you into the clutches of some demented beast who wants to hurt you?  Or us?”  He glanced toward her mum, who was full-out frowning now.  “Or maybe he’ll just shoot us with another of those uncontrollable laughing charms so that he can get away with doing whatever the hell he wants.  He’s a bad influence, Hermione.”

Hermione huffed.  “It’s a _birthday_ , Dad.  And I trust Harry with my _life_.”  She balled her hands into fists, trying to keep a lid on her growing ire.  “He and I….you _can’t possibly_ understand what we’ve been through together.  He is my best friend, and I will never abandon him.  Ever.”  She clenched her teeth and jutted her chin in haughty finality.

“You will not take that tone with me, Hermione.  I won’t allow you to associate with people who are going to bring danger to our home.  We -”

“You won’t _allow_ me?  News alert, Dad.  I’m an adult now.  I can determine for myself whom to trust.  Harry’s one of the biggest advocates of my security!  Of _your_ security!  We are all _alive_ because of him!”

“Hermione, I.  Don’t.  Trust.  Him.  He is no longer welcome in this house.  Is that clear?  And I expect that you don’t-”

Tears started prickling behind her eyelids as she tried to swallow back a torrent of emotion.  “Then I’m not welcome here,” she asserted thickly.  “It was one thing to ask me to give up magic, but I will not forfeit my relationship with Harry.  I can’t.  He’s -”

“Hermione,” her mum interjected with a soothing hum, her fingers splayed in appeal.  “We can see how important Harry is to you.  Of course you’d like to spend some time with him.  But your father is _trying_ to say that we worry about you.  You’ve been through so much recently.  As have _we_.”  She raised her brow meaningfully.  “Is it so unreasonable to arrange an afternoon with your family before you get swallowed up by school?  Surely a birthday celebration with Harry won’t take all weekend.”

Hermione glared in her father’s direction before redirecting her gaze to her mum.  A tiny bubble of guilt threatened to rise up, warring with indignation.   _This_ was precisely why she didn’t like living at home.  Her mother absolutely _excelled_ at the subtle guilt trips.  Hermione groaned internally, but at length she nodded.  “I suppose I can spare a few hours for the beach.”  She tightened her jaw.  “ _After_ I visit with Harry _elsewhere_.”

“Thank you, darling.”  Her mum offered a slight smile and patted a hand gently against Hermione’s cheek.  Her father huffed and stalked outside.  

Shaking her head, Hermione shoved the door shut with a bang and stomped into the kitchen.  To her surprise, Draco was already there.

“Wow, Granger.  I see where you get your flair for dramatics,” he said casually, smearing some jam on a piece of toast.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to hold back a wave of embarrassment.  Had he overheard?  “What are you on about, Malfoy?” she griped.

He pointed the butter knife in her direction.  “ _That_.  That right there.  Sulky much?”

“You’ve _got_ to be joking.  You’re by far the moodiest person I’ve met in my life, and that’s really saying something.”

He dipped his knife in the jam again, completely unfazed.

“So,” he murmured, concentrating on his toast.  “You’re planning a rendezvous with Potter.”

Instantly, Hermione’s left hand flew to her hip.  She aimed her right pointer finger straight at Draco.  “Don’t you start in on Harry, too.  He saved your arse, you know, and -”

“Merlin, Hermione.  You need some calming draught or something.  I’m fucking _very aware_ of what Potter did, all right.  I was _making conversation_.”

Hermione folded her arms across her chest.  “How are you even up already?  I thought you’d sleep the day away.”

“Sorry to disappoint.  I’ve been up for…”  He glanced at the wall clock.  “...almost two hours now.”

“Nightmares?”

He shrugged and then turned to carry his plate to the dining room.  Hermione sighed and quickly fixed her own meal.  She was being a brat, taking out her frustration with her parents on Draco.  He probably wanted some space, but she couldn’t help herself from following him.  She yanked out the chair to his left and dropped into it.

They ate in stubborn silence for a couple of minutes.  Finally Draco snapped, “ _Must_ you be right here?  What do you want, Granger?”

What did she want?  She released a heavy breath.  “I’m sorry for my attitude.  I want to know that you’re okay, I guess.”

Draco huffed, but he turned to look at her.  “Why did you stay with me last night?”

Hermione wanted to avert her eyes, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.  “For the same reason, I suppose.”

“Just because your parents are getting paid to host me, that doesn’t mean that you have to care.  No one would expect you to.”  He turned to glare through the glass door into the back yard.

Instinctively, Hermione laid a hand on his forearm.  Draco flinched but didn’t pull away.  Belatedly, she realised that she’d touched a mere inch from his Mark.

“Draco, look.  I know that we have a complicated past and an even more complicated present.  But you understand what I’ve been through in ways that very few other people do - certainly more than my own parents.  And while I can’t imagine all of the horrors that you’ve endured, I like to believe that I can sympathise with much of your experience.  I don’t quite know how to explain it, but when I see you taking care of yourself, healing, I feel like it kind of gives me permission to do the same.  And when I see you falling apart, it makes me even more sad and angry about the injustices of our lives.”

Draco redirected his eyes to her, and his gaze penetrated intensely into hers.  “Injustices of our lives?  Don’t you read the papers, Hermione?  Most would say that if there’ve been any injustices, it’s that I didn’t get blown up or thrown in Azkaban.”  He dropped his gaze to his plate and mumbled, “I probably should have.”

“I don’t believe that.  Harry and I both testified for you.  We wouldn’t have done that if we thought you deserved to rot in prison.”

He glanced down to where her palm was resting on his arm and then chuckled bitterly.  “You’re so naive, Granger.  You don’t know anything about the things I’ve done.”

She withdrew her hand.  “I know enough.  I don’t doubt that you saw and even did hideous acts, but you were forced, Draco.  I don’t blame you.”

Hermione watched as his eyes widened and then narrowed.  His Adam’s apple bobbed.  He turned his head to clear his throat, and then he quietly muttered, “And what if I _elected_ to be a Death Eater?  What if your so-called ‘hideous acts’ were done of my own volition?  I wasn’t _Imperious_ -ed.  Maybe I took pleasure in it.”

Hermione quirked her brow.  “Did you?”  But she didn’t need him to answer to know how much his conscience had been torn apart.  He had the nightmares to prove his trauma.

She expected him to brush her off, but instead he pushed his plate away and folded his hands on the tabletop in front of him.

“No,” he uttered sharply.  “There was nothing pleasurable about any of it.  I’m glad that disgusting tyrant is gone.”

“Do you...want to talk about it?  The things you had to do, I mean.”

“No,” he declared forcefully.  Hermione noticed that Draco’s clenched fingers were devoid of colour.  She yearned to remind him of the benefits of letting it out - if not to her, then at least to Lynne Davies - but she forced herself to settle into silence beside him.  

A few minutes passed, and just as Hermione made to get up with her plate, Draco stated, “I see them everywhere - the people I hurt, the people I allowed to be hurt.  Awake, asleep, they’re always there.”  He swallowed audibly.  “You’re there, too.”

Hermione released a deep exhale.  Her hand snuck toward Draco’s arm again, and she hesitated only a second before initiating contact.  “I forgive you.”

She hadn’t actually meant to say it.  The words flew out in a rapid whisper, as if caught on the wind.  Still, the moment they were out, she recognized the truth in them.

Draco deliberately kept his gaze on the tablecloth, but Hermione could see the sheen of moisture welling in his eyes.  “You shouldn’t.”

“I do.  For both of our sakes.”

He nodded.  “Thank you, Granger,” he mumbled.  “For last night, too.”

Hermione gave a small smile and pushed her chair back.  “Yes, well I’m sure I can come up with a way for you to repay me,” she said matter-of-factly, urging the heavy atmosphere to lighten.  

Draco scoffed and stood, grabbing his plate.  The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  “What tosh.  I’m already providing my superior skills to assist in your pathetically hodge-podge DADA classes.  If I have to sit there for a month, wandless, as your bloody lackey, I’d say you -”

“- Lackey?” Hermione interrupted.  “Who said that you’d be my lackey?  Professor Snape told McGonagall to - and I quote - ‘partner her with someone who balances out her weaknesses.’”  She intentionally deepened her voice and dragged out the words, adding emphasis to various syllables.  It was a piss-poor impersonation of their former professor, but Draco chuckled, and Hermione’s shoulders instantly felt two stone lighter.

“Is that the best you can do, Granger?”  Draco strode into the kitchen and placed his dish beside the sink, Hermione following closely behind.  “Snape would never emphasize a mild word like ‘BAL-ances.’  No, he would pull out ‘WEAK-nes-ses, giving special attention to the ‘k,’ just to be sure that no one could miss it.”  He glanced at Hermione and declared, “Partner her with someone who balances...out...her...WEAK-nes-ses.

Holy hormones.  It should have been insulting, but Draco’s smooth inflections and uncanny imitation sent a tidal wave of arousal running straight through her, and she quickly started tidying the kitchen in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice.  She cleared her throat.  “Well, you were around him more, so obviously your portrayal is more accurate.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Draco lean against the counter and cross his arms over his chest.  A quick peek revealed a small, knowing smirk on his face.

He watched her work for a couple of minutes, and Hermione’s awareness of him grew as she waited for the teasing or moodiness or _something_ to begin.  She was wiping down the countertop when he finally murmured, “Partners, then?”

They were two innocuous little words, but the contemplative way he said them made them seem like so much more.  She turned her attention to him, and their eyes held.  Hermione nodded.  “Partners.”

“That’s not what Professor Snape told me.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, surprised.

Draco lifted his brows, his smirk widening.  “He said to let you have all the glory to satiate your Gryffindor pride.”

“Ugh,” Hermione grumbled, not bothering to suppress her eyeroll.

Draco pursed his lips.  “Of course, he also told me not to ‘bloody well fuck...this...up,’” he asserted, once again affecting Snape’s diction and popping the ‘k’ on ‘fuck.’

An involuntary chortle burst past Hermione’s lips, but she quickly sobered.  Draco’s face radiated severity, and she didn’t think it was due to the impersonation.

“I don’t give a damn about these DADA classes, Hermione.  Just take the lead and tell me what you need me to do.  It’s not like any of the students want to listen to me anyway.”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort when the unexpected sound of the floo drew their attention.  Damn it all!  Her wand was still tucked on the shelf in the sitting room.  For the hundredth time, she cursed her father’s stupid rules.

They both moved cautiously to the kitchen doorway.  Hermione was about to peer around the corner to scan the sitting room when Draco pulled her back and inserted his body in front of hers.  She scowled and huffed from behind him, bracing her hands on his back and lifting up on her toes to try to get a peek.

“Hullo?” came a masculine voice from the other room.  “Miss Granger?”

Draco straightened his spine and stretched his head back.  “Dickelson and some other bloke,” he whispered.

Hermione shoved Draco aside and marched into the sitting room.  “Mr Dickelson,” she greeted.  “Please come in.  I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know.  My apologies, my dear.  I would have owled, but I wasn’t certain when Todson would be available.”

Hermione glanced at the stoic man dressed in auror robes.  His eyes were surveying the room.  

“Of course.”  She tried to remain calm, but her heart was still hammering from their unexpected intrusion.  She gestured to the sofa as she moved discreetly to collect her wand, Todson’s eyes following her movements.  “Please, sit down.  Has something happened?”

Dickelson settled in one of the wingback chairs, but Auror Todson shifted to peer through the windows at the street.

“Mr Malfoy!” Dickelson said warmly.  “We had hoped to arrive before you left for Hogwarts today.”

Hermione glanced back to see Draco hesitantly easing into the room.  He came to settle beside her on the sofa.

“Mr Dickelson.  Is there a problem?”  His voice sounded strained.

“It appears so, Mr Malfoy.  We -”

Hermione watched the blood vanish from Draco’s face.  “My mother?  Is she okay?” he asked immediately, and Hermione instinctively scooted herself a couple inches closer to him.  A sudden urge to touch him bloomed within her; she clutched at her thighs instead.

Mr Dickelson held up a hand.  “To my knowledge, she’s perfectly fine, Draco.  We’re here because we’ve registered some odd magical events at this location.”

Auror Todson turned back to look at Hermione.  As he took out his wand, Hermione felt herself grip her own even more tightly.

“I’d like to search your house, Miss Granger,” he declared crisply.  It wasn’t a question.

She furrowed her brows.  “Yes, of course.  But I haven’t noticed any -”

But Todson was already off, climbing the stairs.  

“What do you mean by odd events?” Hermione questioned Dickelson, trying to keep her voice moderate.

“There have been some minor disturbances in the wards the past week, and we felt that they warranted an inquiry.  Hermione, have you been apparating anyone besides Draco or yourself in or out?”

“No, of course not.”  She couldn’t keep down her aggravation.  She wasn’t a blooming idiot.

“Have you had any guests?  Anyone visiting?”

“Harry was here a few weeks ago…”

“What about last Thursday or Friday?  Or perhaps yesterday?  We’ve seen indications from each of those dates.”

“And you’re only getting here now?” Draco seethed.  “So glad to know that you take our safety seriously.”

Dickelson jutted his chin forward.  “We take your safety very seriously, Mr Malfoy.  I’ve personally spent quite a lot of time on this case already, and I’d certainly hope you’d be cooperative, if not grateful.”

Something wasn’t sitting well in Hermione’s gut.  She cleared her throat.  “I appreciate all of your work, Mr Dickelson, but Draco has a point.  Why the delay in investigating?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his brunet locks.  “As I said, these seem to be minor disturbances.  There wasn’t any indication of a magical emergency.”

“So, you’re saying there must be catastrophic magic for you to show up?  What if someone knocks at the door under polyjuice and coaxes us outside,” Draco bit out.  “Or if someone uses alternative magic to get to us?”  

“Alternative magic?” Dickelson prodded.

“Like spirit powers or elf magic,” Draco elaborated, his tone patronising.  “An elf or poltergeist could get in with only a minor disturbance to the wards.  Are you telling me you wouldn’t inves-”

“Elf magic,” Hermione breathed, tipping her head back.  “That’s it.  Yesterday, it was because of Higgly.”

She was relating the story of their visitor when Auror Todson stomped down the stairs.  “The traces are all coming from the room there,” he mumbled, pointing through the ceiling to where Draco’s room was located.  “They appear derived from one or more owls and one or more elves.”

Draco repeated the details of Higgly’s presence to the auror, but Hermione’s mind was stuck on the owls.  Draco had brought Talon into the house on Wednesday, and he hadn’t been seen since.  So why were there disturbances on Thursday and Friday? And why hadn’t she noticed?  She received dozens of owl messages each day, and they were able to get in without tripping any alerts.  Well, except of course for ones bearing dangerous packages, but they were merely blocked out.  Perhaps they -

“Oi! Granger!”  Draco gently elbowed her in the side, and her attention flew back to the conversation.  “Dickelson’s asking you about your _fan mail_.”

Hermione didn’t miss the way Draco drew out the words and rolled his eyes.  She redirected her attention to Dickelson and Todson.  “I get a variety of packages coming in.  The wards are embedded with detection charms to screen out any potentially malicious items, and I also conduct my own screening prior to opening packages from owls I don’t know.  I’ve yet to see anything dangerous get past the wards.”

Todson nodded.  “It seems in the last week you’ve had twelve owls rebuffed by your detection charms, but they have all nicked the wards there.”  He tilted his head toward the back yard where the owls usually gathered.  “Your wards seem very effective, and I’m not particularly concerned about those owls.  What I’m curious about are the ones indicating dark magic that are apparently trying to reach Mr Malfoy upstairs.”

The auror leveled a firm stare at Draco.  Hermione couldn’t help squirming in her seat, but Draco somehow managed to stay perfectly still.

“Care to comment, Mr Malfoy?”  

Draco shrugged noncommittally.  

“When was the last time you were in contact with your Death Eater buddies?”

Draco scowled and glared at the coffee table.  After a beat, Todson pulled a small vial from his pocket.  “We can do this the harder way if you prefer.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as righteous indignation flooded through her.   _Veritaserum_.  She took a deep breath, reminding herself that Draco deserved their suspicions and disaffection.  Hell, she’d personally caught him with her wand not long ago.  Still,taunting his dark ties and drugging him with potion seemed wrong, and she couldn’t help blurting out, “Is that _really_ necessary?”

Auror Todson leveled his gaze on her.  “Apparently.”

Draco snatched the vial and unstoppered the top.  “It’s not worth it, Granger.”  He chugged the liquid in one go.  

Hermione huffed and listened to Todson interrogate Draco for the next ten minutes, her arms knotted across her chest.  By the time he was done, Draco’s steely demeanor was starting to crack, and she wanted to get these men out of her house.  She suffered through a few more minutes of parting platitudes before the floo finally fired up, and they disappeared into the flames.

She turned to Draco.  He was sitting forward on the sofa, head in his hands and elbows on his knees.  He seemed so defeated, despite the fact that the questioning had yielded nothing - or perhaps _because_ nothing had been found.  She moved to sit beside him again.

“Sorry, Granger,” he mumbled.

“For what?”

“For bringing a mess to your family’s door.”

She lifted her chin.  “It wasn’t your decision,” she said firmly.  “So you don’t think it’s your mum sending the owls?”

“She wouldn’t send me anything with dark magic.  I don’t know who’s trying to reach me.”  He pinched the bridge of his nose, elbows still propped on his knees.  “I sure as hell hope that whoever it is doesn’t try to drag her into this.”  He suddenly opened his hand and scrubbed his palm over his face.  “Fuck, I need to talk to her.”

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment, contemplating.  She lurched to her feet and grabbed his hand.  “Come on.”

Draco glared at her dejectedly.  “What?"

“Get up.  Time to go to Hogwarts.”

Draco groaned and half-heartedly tried to pull his hand free.  She held it more tightly.

“For fuck’s sake, Hermione.  Bugger off.  I’m ahead on my service hours anyway.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and squeezed her grip harder, tugging on his arm.  “You can be a real arse, you know that, Draco?  Just get up.  There’s more to be done at Hogwarts than work.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Draco peered around the Headmistress’s office, attempting to affect a nonchalant stance.  But truth be told, the room gave him the creeps.  There were instruments displayed everywhere, and almost half of the portraits were staring at him unabashedly.  “You’re sure that we can be here?”

Hermione rolled her eyes.  “For the tenth time, yes.”

Draco shuffled toward the Headmistress’s private floo and reached for the polished bronze bowl housing the powder.  McGonagall had allowed him to floo-call from here twice before, but each time she had been in the room while he connected.  While she’d eventually left to give him privacy, it was still difficult to have a candid conversation.  He glanced up at the portraits before settling his eyes on Hermione, who was now kneeling on the floor beside him.  This call obviously wasn’t going to be any better.

“Don’t forget what I said,” the wily witch lectured.

“Like I could,” he grumbled back.  Hermione’s expectation was insane, and Draco couldn’t even begin to guess how his mother was going to react.  Still, seeing his mum would reassure him, so he supposed he owed Hermione for that.  

Draco tossed the powder in and thrust his head into the flames.  After a few moments, a delightedly surprised Narcissa Malfoy was before him, and Draco exhaled in relief. _She was safe_.  They chatted through a few predictable subjects - his health, his eating, Hogwarts, the Greengrasses - before he raised the subject of the owls.  “So Talon returned from me to you?” he clarified carefully.

“Yes, darling, and then I sent him back again with a package.  Didn’t you get it?  I put in your favourites: ginger newts, peppermint toads, toffee...And I sent some stylish new robes to help banish from my mind that hideous muggle monstrosity you replicated.”

“I didn’t get it,” he muttered, disappointment and concern creeping into his core.  “Is Talon there now?”

He watched his mother’s mouth curve into a frown.  “No, I assumed that he was back with you.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Her frown deepened, and Draco’s stomach twisted.  He hated adding to her worries.

“I sent him off last week - the day after I received your note.”

Draco was quiet for a few moments, considering.  At length, his mother demanded, “What’s going on, Draco?  Is the _virtuous muggleborn_ intercepting your post?”

A wave of heat washed over Draco’s skin, and he knew it had nothing to do with the floo flames.  He could picture Hermione’s indignant face growing stormy in the office behind him.  She and his mother might not be able to see each other outside of the flames, but they’d certainly be able to hear each other.

“No, Mother.  The owls aren’t getting past the wards, is all.  Security is obviously very tight for both me and for Hermione.”

His mother’s eyebrows knitted together.  Shite.

“ _Hermione_?”  A nervous tingle ran up Draco’s spine as she drew the word out.  “It sounds like you’re getting awfully familiar. You remember our last conversation, I hope.  We’re counting on you to make a strong match, Draco.  Miss Granger is certainly popular and powerful, and I can see how some might call her comely, but you’re not _suited_ , darling.”

Draco froze, acutely aware that Hermione was mumbling behind him.  He should lean back out of the flames to check on her before she hexed his backside, but his body refused to move.  The next best thing: feign ignorance.  “I don’t know what you’re speaking of, Mother, but I can assure you that there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Don’t play games with me, Draco.  We both know that she’s intrigued you for a long time, and now that you’re spending so much time together, it’s natural that you’d grow closer.  But our position is...tenuous, darling.  We must tread very carefully -”

Draco registered the deep worry lines near her eyes and the firm set of her jaw.  A shiver of unease skipped across his shoulders, and he knew without a doubt that this warning was rooted in more than just his mother’s desires.  His mind reeled, trying to rapidly assess who would be posing a threat.

His mother’s voice carried on, “- and we simply can’t afford for you to be distracted by Miss Granger, given who she is.”

Draco suddenly felt a sharp jab in his lower back.  He quickly jerked his head out of the flames, and an irate Hermione promptly shoved him over, thrusting her own face into the floo.  He threw himself back in beside her, just in time to see his mother’s look of shock.  He briefly considered tugging Hermione away, but her expression was deceptively calm - so calm that Draco’s brain was firing warning bells.

“Mrs Malfoy,” Hermione intoned politely.  “I thought it best that you know I’m here, seeing as how you’re conversing about me and my _unsuitable_ family.”

His mother’s face remained frozen for a few seconds.  “Miss Granger,” she stated coolly.  “How unexpected.”  She turned accusing eyes on Draco, and he struggled not to squirm.  “I trust that you’re well?”

“Despite what you might otherwise believe, Mrs Malfoy, I’m not some little strumpet.”  

Draco held his breath.  Predictably, Hermione was cutting straight to it - completely lacking in social graces.  She pushed forward, her amber eyes flashing.

“I’m perfectly capable of being around members of the opposite sex without it turning into a bid for a relationship.  Draco and I are living under the same roof.  What would you expect him to call me?  Use of my name doesn’t signify romantic involvement.  Given the circumstances, I would have thought that you’d be appreciative of all that my family has sacrificed to keep your son from Azkaban.”

Oh shit.  Draco felt a strong urge to intervene, but the witch’s stony countenance rendered him silent.

“Of course I’m grateful for all you’ve done, Miss Granger.  I’m simply surprised that a witch of your popularity would find time to sit in on another person’s call.”

Draco could feel the heat radiating off of Hermione beside him.  Her eyes had narrowed, and her mouth was curved into an artificial smile.  “I had planned to let Draco explain my presence, but _given who I am_ , I see that you’re correct.  My time’s too valuable to wait any longer.  I would like to see Higgly, please.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek as his mother’s expression clouded with confusion.

“Pardon?”

“Higgly.  Your house elf.  I would like a few words with him, please, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Our house elf?  Draco, is she serious?  What’s this about?”

Draco cleared his throat.  “Mother, if you just let the stubborn witch speak with the elf for a minute, she’ll leave us to our conversation.”

He watched as a thousand unsaid thoughts crossed his mother’s eyes.  She leveled him a hard look, and at length she snapped her fingers.  “Twinky, fetch Higgly.”

Within moments, the small elf was standing hunched before the Manor’s floo.  At the sight of the two of them in the flames, Higgly started quailing slightly.  With a pang, Draco realised that wizards were not the only ones suffering from post-war trauma.  Hermione must have recognized that, too, because she spoke gently, using that tone of hers that slid from her mouth like honey.  “Hello, Higgly.”

The elf bowed low.  “Miss?”

“Thank you, Higgly, for recovering my lost cat.  It meant more than words can say.  I’m incredibly appreciative, and I want you to know that I’m in your debt.  If you ever need anything at all, please know that you can come to me.”

A dark twinge rose in Draco’s chest.   _He_ had been the one who’d sent the elf, and now Higgly was glowing under Hermione’s tender praises.

The elf glanced awkwardly back at his frowning Malfoy mistress, and Draco knew that despite Hermione’s words of welcome, Higgly would never be able to depart the Manor or pass through the Grangers' wards without a command enabling him to do so.  But what if Higgly really needed help?  What if his mother needed help?  Draco obviously couldn’t count on the owls…  

He took in his mother’s tight eyes and Hermione’s earnest expression.  Sucking in a deep breath, he muttered, “Did you hear that, Higgly?  You are to come to Hermione if you need anything, is that clear?”

“Yes, Master Draco,” the elf intoned, bowing and then hastily disapparating out of the room.

Hermione’s elbow jabbed into his side.  “Hey!  You didn’t have to force him, Draco.”

“Yes, I did.”  He saw the moment that realisation flickered in her eyes, and a tacit wave of understanding passed between them.

Draco turned back toward his mother, whose back was ramrod straight.  Her face was stonier than he’d seen it in months, and her hands were clenched tightly in her lap.

_Shit. Shit. Triple shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for rejoining me on this crazy little journey! This was by far the longest I've gone between posts, and I hope to not leave you hanging for so long again. I don't know that justifications are really necessary, but I've been through such an odd series of events these past several weeks that it kind of helps me to process it all.  
> Not long after my last post, my eldest son, who's epileptic, started having complications with his seizures. His neurologist admitted him to the children's hospital a few hours away from our home. During the time he was there, my mother-in-law was helping with our other children, and she quite literally fractured her back while at our home. She had to be hospitalized and has continued to spend the past several weeks recovering. My husband (bless him) is immunocompromised, so of course he then got really sick from the stress and from being in & out of hospitals visiting the others. So then my sister came to help, but she recently found out that her husband's been cheating on her; she's understandably been a full-out mess. Is there something in the stars? Is this karmic retribution for something? I keep reflecting...  
> Anyhow, everyone is FINALLY back to (relatively) normal, and it's just been a matter of getting caught up on missed work, postponed family birthdays, and ever-elusive sleep. I've missed having time to escape into writing, and hopefully my posts going forward will be more steady. I won't promise specific days, but I'll do my best to keep the updates coming, even if I end up doing shorter chapters.  
> Thanks again for your support! Wishing you all the best! sirel


	19. Confidants and Conjectures

**Friday, July 24, 1998**

 

Draco stood frozen beside his bed at the Grangers’ house, eyes shut and ears straining.  He heard Hermione storm up the stairs and slam her bedroom door as Carol and Mr Granger continued their fierce argument all the way out to the garage.  At the resonating thuds of two car doors jerking shut and the engine hastily starting, Draco eased out of his room into the corridor.

Hermione was audibly sniffing and gasping, obviously crying in her bedroom sanctuary.

Draco sucked in a deep breath, staring at her door.

Well, shit.  His whole routine was shot to hell.  It had only been a matter of time, really.  The Grangers had been tiptoeing around each other ever since Hermione’s last blow-up with her dad over her relationship with Potter.  All week, the two had only spoken to each other about insipid daily logistics - What time should we expect you for dinner?  Has the post arrived?  We’re out of loo rolls - while Carol Granger tried to smooth the waters with her tireless mediation.

They had all been putting in longer hours out of the house, so Draco had spent the week diligently following Dr Davies’s advice: stick to routines.  He had routines for morning, Hogwarts, evening, and bedtime, and over the last few nights he and Hermione had somehow fallen into a middle-of-the-night routine as well.  She would wake around two a.m. and stumble into his room to see if he was up - which he always was.  Then she’d settle against the wall and read from her driving book, and he’d watch her lips form the tedious prose, always wondering if her eyelids would grow heavy before his.

They never did.

In the mornings, Draco would bolt awake, heart racing, but he’d hear her in the shower and know that he had a few more minutes to lie-in before he had to crawl out of bed.  He’d listen to her return to her room and then progress down the stairs, which was the cue for him to take his turn in the bathroom.  After, he’d go down to breakfast, engage in some casual conversation, and then Hermione’s parents would depart for work.  He and Hermione would then tidy up the kitchen before stepping into the floo for the incommodious trip to Scotland.

But not today.  Today, the moment he stepped out of the shower, he could hear the passionate quarrel rising through the floorboards.  He shaved and dressed slowly, hoping that Carol would manage to instill some calm.  But no.  Now his stomach was rumbling as he stood in the corridor, Hermione’s sobs tearing at something in his chest.

He sucked in another breath and knocked on her door.  She went silent for the briefest of moments and then croaked, “What do you want, Draco?”

He stared at his feet for a moment, irritated that she didn’t simply invite him in.  He didn’t want to _explain himself_ through a bloody _door_.

“What do you think I want, Granger?  Open the fucking door.”

He heard her groan as her footsteps approached.  She yanked the door open and stood glaring with her left hand fisted on her hip.  Trails of shed tears glimmered from her puffy eyes down her cheeks.  “As charming as ever, I see,” she grumbled.  “What do you want?  You’re perfectly capable of making your own damned breakfast.”

His frustration skyrocketed - angry with her for being such a snot when he was trying to be _nice_ and with himself for not just leaving her alone when she was obviously having a breakdown.  He was about to retort that he certainly did not need her overcooked eggs, but he suddenly noticed several trunks sitting open.  A bolt of alarm struck to his core.  

“You’re _packing_?!” he asked incredulously.

Hermione bit her lip, and Draco pushed his way further into her room to stare at the evidence.  The trunks were already half full of books and robes.  “You’re fucking _leaving_?!  Where?”

“Hogwarts.  I can’t stay here anymore, Draco.  My dad absolutely _refuses_ to understand about Harry, and he expects me to assume some sort of muggle life.  He’s suddenly going on and on about university and meeting new friends who are ‘more studious and less rebellious.’  As if _Harry_ were some big rebel!”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up, twenty quips racing to his tongue, but he forced himself to swallow them down.

Hermione continued, “Meanwhile my magic is crackling inside, and it’s all I can do to keep it suppressed.  I wanted to stay here to protect my parents, but at this rate I’m liable to hex my dad myself.”  Hermione turned, reached for another stack of books, and dropped them into a trunk.

Draco’s mind started reeling in panic, a singular thought rising above all others: _You can’t let her leave!_   Despite all the tension and the weird muggle cultural norms, this was not a bad living arrangement.  He couldn’t be shunted off now to go live with some other family - for surely the Grangers wouldn’t allow him to stay without Hermione there.  Who would read to him about traffic laws at 2 a.m., or lecture him about bacteria, or indulge his questions about motorbikes, or debate the efficacy of certain potions, or force him into bed when his demons riled him, or let him filch their damned mandarin mist shampoo???

He was next to her in three strides, his brain frantically searching for a way to convince her to stay.  “What about your mum?  She’d be heartbroken if you left.”

Hermione’s face squished up while her eyes began to brim.  “I know.  But she’ll be hurt worse if my dad and I continue to fight.”

“And what about…” _Me_ , he wanted to say, but his Slytherin instincts forbade him.  “...What about the Wizengamot?  You made a commitment, Hermione.”

At that, the tears in her eyes leaked over, and she quickly swiped them away.  “I know, Draco.  I’m a horrid person, all right?  I obliviated my parents without their consent; I brought them back to England without their consent; I made a deal with the Wizengamot without their consent.”  Her voice grew louder with each proclamation.  “I made promises that I shouldn’t have, and now I’ve lost my boyfriend, my parents’ trust, and my integrity with the very wizards that have the power to affect my future.”  She sniffed and tossed some cat treats toward the trunk.  “I just want everything to go back like it was - my parents here in Sutton with their dental practice and me at Hogwarts.”

Draco was thoroughly vexed that she had yet to even mention the impact on him, but he forced himself to stick to the matter at hand.  “You can’t go back to how things were, Hermione.  You know that.”

She suddenly covered her face with her hands, and a sob shook her frame.  It was so out of character that Draco found himself automatically stepping closer.  Tentatively, he reached out and soothed his palm on her shoulder.  She stiffened for a moment, and then to his infinite surprise she turned into him and pressed her body against his, wrapping her arms around his waist.  He floundered for a second, but then his arms snaked around her.

He’d never been a hugger, really, but he knew that she was.  He’d seen her embracing her Gryffindor pals time and again, and images of her squeezing Potter had been showing up in the _Daily Prophet_ since at least 4th year.  He held her as she flattened herself against him, his fingers fascinated by the curve of her spine, the shallow ridges of her rib cage, and the notable bump of her bra clasp through her blouse.  Her fragrance swirled around him, and once again his mind screamed, _'Don’t let her leave!'_

“You have an enormous amount of integrity, Hermione, and anyone who can’t see that is a fool.”

Her breaths were heavy, but he could tell that she was comforted by his closeness.  Some primal chord within him wanted to crow.  

“Promise me something,” he asked carefully.

She stiffened again, and Draco widened the hand on her back for a fuller caress.  She didn’t say anything, so he pressed forward.  “Promise me that you won’t make any decisions right now.  You haven’t been sleeping well, and you’re upset.  Talk to Dr Davies first.  It’s almost time for our Friday appointment anyway.”

Hermione remained quiet, and Draco had to prevent himself from squeezing her tighter.  His stomach was starting to summersault when at last she nodded against his chest.

“Okay,” she whispered.  “I’ll talk to her about it.”

A wave of relief washed over Draco, and this time he couldn’t keep himself from pulling her closer.  They clung to each other for several more minutes, Draco trying to ignore what her tears and snot were doing to his recently laundered shirt as his attention focused on a burgeoning situation a bit further down.  Eventually, his stomach sent an audible reminder that he hadn’t eaten breakfast, and Hermione pushed away from him with a small chuckle.

“If I make your oatmeal, will you let me go first today?” she asked, alluding to their unspoken agreement that Hermione took the first therapy appointment on Tuesdays while Draco usually went first on Fridays.  

He pursed his lips, pretending to think about it.  Truth be told, he’d make _her_ breakfast if it meant that she’d reconsider leaving.  His instincts said that wouldn’t be necessary, though.  Apparently, his hug had pacified her.  “Extra brown sugar?” he tested.

Hermione crossed her arms and shook her head slightly at his audacity, but the spark in her eyes and the upward curve of her lips told him he’d won.  “Fine.  Extra brown sugar.”

“Deal,” he said, smiling.

She’d actually think about staying AND she’d make him breakfast?  Sweet Salazar, he really needed to hug her more often.

 

~~~~~~~

 

**Saturday, July 25, 1998**

 

“We made it,” Hermione proclaimed somewhat astoundedly as she parked Paul’s car near Sutton Station.

He chuckled beside her.  “You sound surprised.”

“I think I am, a little.  I really didn’t believe I was ready to handle the clutch in so much traffic.”

“But you clearly were ready.  Maybe you’ll trust my judgment next time.  You are a conscientious pupil, Hermione, and I’m obviously a fabulous teacher.”  He winked as a grin spread across his face.

Hermione couldn’t help her answering smile.  “Right.  Thank you, Paul, for your vote of confidence and for the ride to the station.”

She extended his key to him and reached down to gather her beaded bag but was distracted when Paul grasped her hand and folded it in his.

“You’re sure that you won’t let me take you all the way to meet your friend?  I spend my workdays moving around the city, Hermione.  I certainly don’t mind driving to Islington.”

Hermione glanced down at his hand - warm and comforting - wrapped around hers.  A twinge of guilt rippled through her at the knowledge that she had no intention of either taking the train or allowing him to drive her to Harry’s unplottable home.  As soon as she was out of this car and around the corner of the station, she’d disapparate like some deceptive double agent leading a secret life.  

She cleared her throat and tried to push the distressing thought aside.  “That’s very generous of you, Paul, but I’m certain.  There’s no reason for you to sit in traffic for hours.”

Paul’s lips parted as if about to argue, but then he appeared to think better of it.  His eyes flashed with a fleeting look of disappointment before suddenly rallying again.  “Well, perhaps you’d consider seeing me tomorrow?  We could drive out into Shropshire, and maybe I could even persuade you to let me buy you dinner.”  His thumb slid smoothly over her knuckles, sending waves of sensation up her arm, and Hermione’s mind started spinning.  A scenic drive and dinner?  Was Paul asking her on a date?  

She’d never before been on a proper date, unless one counted the Yule Ball with Viktor.  Certainly her Slug Club events weren’t worth classifying, and in retrospect she and Ron had simply fallen into being friends who had exclusive sex as opposed to actual dating.  But would it be any different with Paul?  She’d known him since before she’d lost her primary incisors...and yet, they really didn’t know each other well anymore.  He had no clue about the realities of her life.

She stared at his hand holding hers, but she made no move to tug it away.  “I’m sorry, Paul.  I’ve already promised my parents that I’d join them at the beach tomorrow.”

He studied her face, and Hermione felt herself flush under his scrutiny.  “Well, I certainly understand that.  I’m sure that your parents enjoy having you home from school.”

Hermione couldn’t fully suppress her groan, and Paul’s eyebrows darted up.  His surprised expression caused her to flush even more.  “No?” he questioned.

Hermione slowly extricated her hand from his and cleared her throat.  “My dad and I have been having some differences of opinion, lately.  It’s been harder than I thought going back to living at home.”

To her amazement, Paul laughed.  “I hear you.  It’s difficult being an adult living at home.  My grandmother is constantly interrogating me about...well, everything.  How much did I spend on this?  Who am I meeting with when?  My grandparents’ health is declining, and I like being close to help care for them, but sometimes I’d like to go out with a mate or take a woman on a date without submitting to an hour of questioning.”

At the mention of taking women on dates, Hermione nodded and glanced down at her hands, which were now clutching her beaded bag on her lap.  She leaned toward the car door to get ready to depart.

Hastily, Paul uttered, “Your dad’s having a hard time acknowledging that his daughter has grown up, is he?”

Hermione sighed and looked back at him.  “That’s an understatement.  He’s complaining about my friends, my school...the entirety of my life choices.  He’s actually banned one of my best friends from the house and is pushing me to apply to particular universities.  I just…”

She noticed that Paul was peering at her with his brow furrowed, hanging on her every word.

“You just what?” he prodded.

“I just want him to accept me as I am, even though I’ve made some decisions that he doesn’t agree with.  We’re at such odds right now that if it weren’t for Draco, I would have moved back to school already.”

It had taken her awhile with Lynne Davies to be able to recognize and articulate those feelings.  Deep down, Draco mattered, as did her guilt and worry about her parents’ protection, but she was not about to go into that with Paul.

“If not for Draco?”

Hermione briefly bit her lip.  “He and my mum get on so well together; I’d hate to see him have to relocate again.”

Paul offered a small smile.  “Your mum gets on with everyone.”

Hermione nodded as Paul’s hand reached out to take hers again.  “Are you looking forward to being with them at the beach tomorrow?”

“Not really.”

“Would you like me to join you?”

Hermione’s eyebrows instantly shot up, and Paul quickly added, “Your dad and I get along.  You could use me as a buffer, or at the very least as a distraction.”  He flashed a smile and lightly squeezed her hand.

“You’d do that?  Why?”  The words fell unfiltered from Hermione’s mouth, and she inwardly kicked herself for her lack of tact.

“Well, the truth is that I like you, Hermione, and your family.  I was glad when you mentioned that you’d be living at home this year, so it seems a shame that you’ve been thinking about running back to your mystery school again.”

He paused, and a sly smile slid across his face, causing Hermione’s stomach to flutter in anticipation.  “Plus, I’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity to see such a beautiful woman sprawled out on the beach in a bathing suit.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, her indignant thoughts at such a superficial statement warring with an embarrassing stirring within her.  Mighty Merlin, she was actually _flattered_ by his objectification, and _that_ was unacceptable.  She reached for the handle of the car door and pushed it open.  “Good-bye, Paul.  Thanks again for the ride.”

“Hermione, wait!  I was just teasing - well, not about the liking you part, or the beautiful part, but about the bathing suit.  You could be wearing a Christmas jumper and wellies and I’d still look forward to spending time with you.”

Hermione stood beside the car, leaning in slightly with her hand propping the door open.  “A Christmas jumper, eh?”

Paul smiled.  “Yes, a _hideous_ one with a reindeer and flashing lights and buttons and pockets.”

Hermione felt her own smile slowly bloom despite herself.  She arched a brow.  “Bells, even?”

Paul appealed to her with the epitome of mock severity.  “Even bells, Hermione.”

She nodded, smiling wide.  “Thank you, Paul.  Perhaps we can go driving again one evening this week.”

She closed the door and stood up, and Paul immediately climbed out of the passenger side.  Standing, he crossed his arms on the roof of the car, looking across at her.  “Which beach are you going to?”

Hermione gave a slight shake of her head.  “I don’t know for sure; my dad usually likes to go all the way to West Wittering.  I’ll see you later, Paul.”

She turned and walked away, somehow knowing that he was watching her movements.  She kept her spine straight, resolutely forbidding herself from glancing back.  Once she was around the corner of the station, she leaned against the wall to collect her thoughts.  Paul had asked her on a date.  He’d called her beautiful.  He’d made her smile and feel a confidence that she hadn’t had in a long time.  Paul, who she’d known for ages.  Paul, who was a _muggle_...  Her smile suddenly faded.  

She spotted a secluded nook and beelined towards it, casting a nonverbal disillusionment charm before spinning on her heel and disapparating to Harry’s.

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Hermione!” Harry greeted as she apparated into the entrance hall of 12 Grimmauld Place.  “It’s great to see you!”

She hurried across the narrow space and wrapped her arms around him.  “I’ve missed you, Harry.”

She stepped back and really took him in.  His face was paler than usual with purple arcs under his eyes.  His clothes were clean but wrinkly, and his hair was way overdue for a trim.  Without thought, she lifted a hand to his cheek and found that he was examining her as intensely as she was scrutinising him.

They exchanged somber, knowing smiles, and Hermione glanced around the room.  It looked much the same as when she’d last stayed there, with its dark wood and ancient fabrics.  A depressive weight settled over her, in sharp contrast to the moments of levity that she’d experienced with Paul.

“Let’s go into town, Harry.”

He seemed surprised by her request.  “What about the press?”

“If they’re willing to trail us into muggle London, they’ll end up with a shocking photo of two known friends eating a meal together.  Come on.  How long has it been since you’ve left this place?  It’s like a haunted cave in here.”

“I leave all the time, Hermione.  I do have a rather demanding job, you know.”

Hermione softened her tone in sympathy.  “I know, Harry.”  And she did.  She also knew that he was resistant to changing anything in his house out of respect for Sirius’s memory.

Harry hovered near the sitting room, seeming reluctant to go.  Hermione’s blood started racing at the thought of staying cooped up in 12 Grimmauld Place.  The walls felt like they were leaning in towards her, compressing the air in her lungs.  “How about the Georgian restaurant?  I know how much you like the khachapuri…”

Harry’s brows perked up in interest, and relief seeped through Hermione as she realised that she had him.  She grabbed his hand, and they apparated to the other side of the neighbourhood, avoiding the magical sight-seers that assembled outside of Harry’s home each day.

They landed smoothly, and Hermione linked her arm in Harry’s.  “Is it horrible that I really like giving your fans the slip each time?” Hermione asked ruefully.

Harry huffed.  “Horrible, no.  I’d much rather sneak past them than have to succumb to their doting enthusiasm every day, but do you know what’d be even better?  Being able to actually walk out my front door and move along with my life.  They practically accosted Ginny the other day.  Thank Merlin that witch has a fiery _Everte Statum_.  They got blasted back a good twenty metres.”

“Harry!”

“What?!”  One side of his mouth was quirked up in proud amusement, and Hermione couldn’t help grinning as he nonchalantly pushed his glasses up with his index finger.  “No one got hurt...at least not irreparably.”

Hermione tried to look stern, but Harry tugged her closer against his side as they started walking toward the restaurant.  “Oh, come now, Hermione.  You can’t tell me that you wouldn’t blast the hell out of people hovering outside your house if they started bombarding you with questions and invading your personal space.”

“Fair enough, but why don’t you just extend your protective enchantments so that they can’t get so close?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried.  But apparently even the famous Harry Potter must abide by laws that separate public and private spaces.  Fortunately, the aurors keep a close watch on this area for me.”

Hermione felt a heaviness twist around her.  “And you trust them?”

Harry peered at her in consternation.  “Who?  The aurors?  Well, they’re not you, but most of them I’d trust with my life.  Why do you ask?”

“You mentioned before that Kingsley was having trouble with some of them, and I was not very impressed with the one who came to my parents’ house on Monday.”

Harry stopped walking and pulled her to the edge of the pavement.  “You didn’t tell me that you had an auror come to your house,” he whispered fiercely.  “What happened?”

Harry’s face was intensely serious, and Hermione had to resist an urge to smooth her finger across the tight lines of concern creasing his forehead.

“We’re all fine,” she quickly reassured him.  “There were some disturbances in the wards due to some owls and an elf, and Dickelson brought Auror Todson along to investigate.”

Harry leaned back slightly, his chin jutting a bit forward as he considered.  “Todson?  The bloke about Ron’s height, with greying hair and a scar by his ear?”

Hermione nodded, and Harry continued.  “I’ve never been paired with him, so I don’t really know him, but he was one of the few who remained with the DMLE even under Thicknesse and Yaxley.  He’s supposedly been interrogated backwards and forwards over his loyalty, even submitting to veritaserum and a legilimens.”

“Yeah, well, he harassed Draco about his ‘Death Eater buddies’ and forced him to take veritaserum to answer questions about the owls and elf.  It seemed a bit extreme to me, nevermind the fact that the man was as gruff as Filch.”

Harry sighed, and they began walking toward the restaurant once again.  “Everyone is tired and stressed, Hermione.  They just want to get the job done.  Todson’s certainly not alone in jumping straight to using truth potion, especially on someone who was, technically, a Death Eater.  The real question is, _‘Do you feel safe?_ ’”

She thought about that.  She obviously felt safe enough that she’d given in to her dad’s stupid request to stow her wand, and she’d actually considered moving out of her parents’ Sutton home, leaving them with only the wards as protection.  But the knowledge that owls were being rebuffed and that Narcissa Malfoy still regarded her as inferior made Hermione feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“Hermione?” Harry prodded, tugging on her arm gently.

“I’m fine, Harry.  Safe enough, considering.”

He narrowed his eyes a bit in scrutiny.  “You know that you can always contact me, don’t you?  Day, night, it doesn’t matter.  I’ll come if you need me.  Always.”

She smiled at him somberly.  “I know, Harry.  And I’d do the same for you.  Always.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

An hour later, Hermione was nursing her second glass of wine as she finished off her lobio.  She smirked as she noticed a bit of egg on Harry’s cheek that he’d failed to detect in his haste to devour his khachapuri.

“What?” he said, his mouth partially full.

“My god, Harry.   _Please_ tell me that Ron’s habits are not rubbing off on you.”  She slid a napkin across the table at him, and he primly dabbed his face.

“That bad, eh?” he asked.

Hermione widened her eyes and gave an exaggerated nod.  “Quite.”

“Well, I suppose that’s what happens when I don’t have you around to keep me in check.”  He smiled sadly and declared, “You really ought to come by more, Hermione.  You’re always welcome...And before you say it,” he rushed, holding up a hand, “I know that I’m just as responsible.  I need to be better about visiting you, too.”

Hermione inhaled deeply and bit her lip.

“What?” Harry inquired.

“About that, Harry.  My dad...He’s so ridiculous.  He’s...well, he’s banned you from the house.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open in shock, and he shook his head as if to clear it.  “Because of the war?  Or because I zapped him with a cheering charm?”

Hermione’s hands flew out in exasperation.  “I don’t honestly know, Harry.  He’s just bitter about all that’s happened, and he refuses to listen when I tell him that you are not at fault.  I’ve made my own choices, but he wants to believe that you’ve been a ‘negative influence’ or some such rubbish.  It’s absurd, and I’ve told him that he cannot stop me from seeing you.”

Harry stared at her for a full minute, and Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her chair.  At length, Harry said, “Look, Hermione, I value your friendship more than anything, but I don’t want to come between you and your parents.”

“You’re not!  This goes deeper than that, Harry.  My dad doesn’t even want me using magic anymore.  He’s essentially trying to get me to turn my back on the wizarding world, and he’s _thrilled_ that Ron and I have broken up.  He’d love it if I’d go off to university, become a professional, and fall in love with a strait-laced muggle with a squeaky-clean reputation.”

Harry gave an awkward chuckle.  “And that’s not what you want.”

Hermione looked at him incredulously.  “Of course not!”  But guilt automatically trickled through her knowing that she had essentially agreed to see Paul again.

“Oh, Godric, I know that face.  What are you hiding, Hermione?”

She thinned her lips.  “Nothing.  It’s irrelevant.”

“Bollocks.”  He leaned forward and speared one of the onions from her bowl with his fork.  “Tell me.”

Hermione leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.  “It’s really nothing, Harry.  My neighbour has been teaching me to drive, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” Harry muttered.  “Ron had mentioned that, but I thought he was getting wound up for nothing.”

“It is nothing.”

“Then why are you blushing?”  He raised his eyebrows and brought the onion to his mouth, chewing casually.  “You like the guy?”

Hermione sighed and dropped her arms to fidget with the edge of the napkin in her lap.  “He sort of asked me on a date, but it’s not like it can go anywhere.  He’s a muggle, Harry.  How could I be in a relationship with someone when I’d have to conceal a major part of my identity?”

“If you don’t like him, that’s one thing, Hermione, but I’m surprised that you’d write someone off just because they’re a muggle.  It’s not like it’s unheard of for witches to marry non-wizards.  Look at Seamus’s parents.”

Hermione’s brows shot up.  “Exactly!  Look at Seamus’s parents!”  She leaned forward and clutched the edge of the table, asserting in a harsh whisper, “His mum bloody well terrified his dad by not revealing her magic until after they’d gotten married!  And do you want another example?  Tom Riddle’s parents.  Deception is _not_ the kind of foundation that I’d like in a relationship, Harry.  Even today I had to lie and tell Paul that I was taking the train to see you.”

Harry set down his fork and leaned in slightly.  “You saw him today?  And you told him you were coming to see me?  That seems rather guileless to me.”  Hermione hated the knowing expression on his face.

“The _point_ , Harry, is that I’m tired of having to withhold who I am.  Apart from you, the only person who really understands me is Draco.”

“Now _there’s_ a statement I never imagined hearing you say.”  Harry grabbed the wine bottle and refilled his glass.  “Malfoy’s still treating you okay, then?”

Hermione reached for her own glass and began twirling the stem in her fingers.  “Surprisingly, yes.  I mean, he’s working through a lot of issues, but frankly his moodiness doesn’t hold a candle to Ron’s.  He’s...actually a rather good listener.”

Harry’s eyes were boring into her, obviously trying to suss something out.  She plowed forward awkwardly, hoping to cover the quickening of her traitorous heartbeat in her chest.  “He even helped me get Crookshanks back, and he connected me with one of the manor’s house elves, to his mother’s infinite chagrin.”

“Seriously?  Crookshanks?”  Harry’s eyes were like saucers.  “Wow, he must really....”  He stopped himself with a head shake.  “But don’t worry about Narcissa, Hermione.  She’s really not so bad deep down.”

“You’re biased, Harry.  You’re also not a _mudblood_.”

“Hermione, don’t -”

“Don’t what?  Don’t call myself this?”  She tugged up her sleeve, and Harry grimaced.

“Not one week ago she sneered at me being ‘the virtuous muggleborn’ and claimed that Draco and I are ‘unsuited.’”

Harry blinked.  “And...you disagree?  Are you actually...interested...in Malfoy?”

Hermione wanted to growl in frustration.  “That’s irrelevant, Harry.  What-”

“It seems perfectly relevant.”

She groaned.  “What _matters_ ,” she persisted, “is that after everything, Narcissa still thinks of me as some lowly pile of troll dung.  I know that I shouldn’t care, but I do.  I fought in that war with the hopes of making a _difference,_ Harry.  And I can’t share that with Paul without revealing too much, and I can’t talk to my parents without it further fueling their mission to bring me back from the magical world.  I wouldn’t have expected Draco to empathise with my position, but for some reason he does, and he even tried to deflect his mother’s comments.  And then yesterday -”  Abruptly, she cut herself off.  Maybe she didn’t need to tell Harry everything.

“Yesterday...?”

She shifted slightly in her seat.  “Draco just reassured me a bit after another row with my dad.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he examined her, and damn it - she could feel her cheeks flushing as she remembered how Draco had held her against him.  

She took a gulp of wine.  “Okay, new subject.  Your birthday.  Next Friday.  Will I be able to see you before I have to leave for Hogwarts?”

Harry abruptly broke away from his inspection of her face, and she couldn’t help but notice that his cheeks pinkened slightly.  “Molly’s planning a celebration at the Burrow that evening.  You’re welcome to come,” he added hastily.

Hermione pinned him with a sceptical stare.  “Yeah, I’m sure that would go over well,” she uttered sarcastically.  Molly was _not_ satisfied with her break up from Ron, and the witch had sent three separate howlers to Hermione to make her feelings clear.

“It’s my party, Hermione.  Of course you’re invited.  I’ll make sure that everyone is on their best behaviour.  Ron included.”

Hermione sucked in a deep breath, trying to swallow down the emotion that started welling in her throat.  She loved Harry and wanted to see him again, but no way in hell was she ready to face the Weasleys at the Burrow.  She wanted to cry at the realisation that her surrogate family felt so out of reach.

“I’m...I’m just not ready for that, Harry.  I’m sorry.”

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand.  She forced her features into a mask of calm.  Harry already felt badly enough being caught in the middle; she didn’t want to add to his misplaced sense of responsibility.  “Perhaps we can meet another evening instead?”

He smiled at her offer.  “Definitely.”

She smiled back, maybe a tad too tightly.  She just had to make it home, and then she could have a proper cry.  Again.  Merlin, was that all she ever did anymore?  Draco would probably roll his eyes and say, ‘ _Yes, Granger, now pull your pitiful arse together.  Are you still a pathetic little first year? Since when are you content to let others keep you down?"_   And she’d tell him to shut up, but afterwards she’d feel light enough - alive enough - to charge into a debate with him over something completely, wonderfully asinine.

Her shoulders suddenly felt lighter, and at the thought of arriving home to her blond sparring partner, her smile softened.  She held Harry’s hand and looked at him fondly, until the flash of a camera sent her mood once again spiraling downward.


End file.
